


(i think you're) just like heaven.

by katarama



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (Berserker Theo), Canon-Typical Violence, Druids, Falling In Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mind Control, Minor Character Death, Nonbinary Character, Restraints, Slightly Invasive Bathing, Slow Burn, Stardust AU, Stars, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 11:50:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7314115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katarama/pseuds/katarama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott is a young star, shining brightly in the night sky.  Lonely and wistful, they've watched life on Earth for centuries, and they dream of experiencing adventure and idealized romance for themselves.  When they're knocked out of the sky by a magical pendant and led along by Stiles, a boy from Beacon Hills who promised Lydia the fallen star to prove his love, they get far more adventure than they bargained for.  But the longer Scott spends on Earth, the more danger they're in; the heart of a star brings youth and beauty to anyone who possesses it, and many would kill to have Scott's heart to themselves.  Scott and Stiles work together to protect Scott and to redefine love, finding it in the most unlikely of places.  (Stardust AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (i think you're) just like heaven.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been a labor of love, and I'd like to issue a huge thank you to everyone, especially fandom corner, who cheered me on. Thank you to Taylor, who gave me head pets and put things in perspective whenever I cried about getting this done, and to Alex, who spent many a night sprinting with me, and who provided their expert betaing skills. Thank you to my love Ellis, who was with me along every step of the way, from being my sounding board when I decided halfway through the writing period to completely change my story idea, to doing the final read through for me.
> 
> And, of course, thank you most of all to my wonderful artist, [Ptera](http://pterawaters.tumblr.com), who took my seed of an idea and turned it into a really awesome playlist.
> 
> You can listen to the amazing playlist she made for this fic [HERE](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7194461).

Once upon a time, the night sky was dark.

It wasn’t empty.  There were swirling clouds, specks of dust.  Parts and pieces of the universe gently floating, waiting for their time.  But it was dark, devoid of life.

Time passed, and still they waited, suspended in the vastness of the galaxies.  They huddled close, gathering together until their time finally came.  They brought each other heat and substance, fitting together, spinning faster and closer.  The air around them warmed with their excitement, with their impatience.

Once upon a time, centuries ago, the universe decided that it was time, and out of the dust and darkness, there was a flash of brightness.  Something new was created, made from the ashes of the fallen stars, a pinprick of light and life surrounded by miles and miles of darkness.

They were a star, and their name was Scott.

Scott was brilliant and new, vivid and shining with vibrancy and youth.  They took in all they could of the universe, learning everything they could about their place in it.  They realized very quickly, though, that they didn’t have much company, up in the sky with the last remnants of dust and rock.  The closest of their friends, their siblings, were billions of miles away, too far to reach, to hold and touch.  They talked, signaling in flickering light, but it wasn’t the same as being hugged, pulled close to someone else’s body by a warm pair of arms.

Scott resigned themselves to never having that from a fellow star.  Other stars, older stars, told them stories, stories of stars being born too close to each other and ripping each other apart, of stars that burned too brightly to see each other and lost their glow.  They heard a few stories of stars that aren’t alone, twin stars created together, or human lovers immortalized together by the universe, holding a place together in the night sky.  Scott isn’t a twin, though, and they certainly aren’t human.  They don’t have a lover.  They don’t even know what it feels like to love, not for lack of trying.

Up in the sky, as time drags on, Scott has a lot of free time.  They don’t have many responsibilities, and glowing comes naturally to them, takes little thought and little energy.  So they watch.  They watch and they listen.  Their favorite planet, the most curious of them all, is Earth, full of billions of tiny people with their short, intense lifespans.  Scott follows lifetimes and lifetimes of humans, curious and enthusiastic in their youth.

The older stars, the jaded ones, the ones who have given up hope, belittle Scott’s interest, but Scott can’t help it.  They can see, sometimes, why the older stars have turned their eyes from Earth.  There’s brutality and pain, constant political and military turmoil, brief flashes of inspiration that are snuffed out by tyrants.  There’s cycles of emotion, fear and hatred and anger, that baffle Scott, that are so outside their realm of experience that it’s hard to understand why the people can’t just push past it.  It’s all foreign, hard to watch even from the distant night sky.

But Scott also sees peace, and understanding.  Simple acts of kindness and moments of clarity.  And, most important of all, they see love.

They see it at its best and its worst, and it’s love they understand perhaps the least.  They’ve watched it happen millions of times.  They’ve seen it played out in the stories immortalized by future generations, have watched the way the stories are retold through the generations, turned into warnings and fantasies.  They also see the everyday stories, the ones that don’t get handed down, except from parents to children.  Even those stories could be tragic, feelings two girls were afraid to act on because of their parents.  Missed opportunities.  Bad breakups where friends hurt each other.

A misguided shop boy living in a small town, tossing a rock at the window of his red-haired crush, only to be made a fool of by her more popular suitor with angular cheekbones.

But Scott continues to watch, to get just a glimpse of that human emotion.  It’s hard to comprehend but easy to believe in.  It may not glow like them, but Scott pictures it as vivid, light, and warm, a small, curling flame to be stoked with time, or a wildfire that burns too brightly too quickly.  Scott thinks it’s the brightest force in humanity, and they sometimes wish they could _know_ , that they could feel for themselves just a single spark of what the humans feel.  They dream of the adventures that could lead them there, the kinds of stories they could be a part of.  They aren’t very good at swashbuckling, and they don’t think they would like fighting very much, anyway.  They are clever, and good at planning, but they aren’t entirely versed in human ways, even after so much time.

It doesn’t stop Scott from wanting, though.  They know it’s foolish, being wistful.  The life of a star is not particularly full of adventure, but it’s important, and Scott doesn’t think they’ll be stopping anytime soon.  But they have to fill up their time with something besides shining and sleeping, and if their mind wanders a little bit, they figure it isn’t hurting anyone.  They’re content to wish, to bide their time with dreams of what they could have had.

Maybe it was that that made all the difference.  Maybe their wishing changed reality, though less is said about wishes from stars than wishes on stars.  But Scott was made for more than merely looking pretty.  Scott was made for adventure, made to wander the earth and experience it for themselves.

They aren’t ready when it happens, but few are truly ready for the disruption of their everyday lives in such an abrupt manner.

Scott’s shining in the sky when an object, small and hard and lit blue, strikes them.  They’re unbalanced, and they fall, clinging to the object the entire time.

 

* * *

 

 

Scott opens their eyes to a familiar darkness and a sharp, searing pain.

The ground is hard below them, uneven clumps of grass and mud that are wet from the dew.  There’s also rock; the ground slopes up around them, and they’re glad they don’t remember falling, striking the ground with such force that they dug a crater for themselves.  There’s something digging into their back, hard and round, a steady, sharp pain that’s getting increasingly difficult to ignore.  They attempt to slowly pull themselves up to see what it is.  They regret it almost immediately.  Their muscles ache, their whole body numb aside from the pain in their ankle.  It cuts through everything else, leaving them shaking and gasping only from trying to bend it.

They stretch out their leg, trying to cushion their ankle on the softest patch of ground they can find.  They know that humans have ways of dealing with hurt ankles, but it’s one thing watching their skilled hands weave fabric and sticks around injuries and another for Scott to attempt it themselves.  They don’t even know where they’d find the appropriate equipment for that, or how to travel somewhere where the supplies were available when they’re hurting so much.

So Scott decides to take things one step at a time.  First, they should figure out what it was that brought them down.  Then… they’ll work from there, and figure it out.

Scott turns around carefully, trying not to jostle anything, and looks where they were lying, only to see a gently glowing blue pendant.  It’s carved of wood, though not one Scott could name by sight or touch.  Embedded in the wood are claws, fading slowly back to beige and white, forming the shape of a triskele.  They put it around their neck; if it is something strong enough and important enough to knock a star from the sky, it feels important enough to keep.  If nothing else, it may help solve the mystery of why they’re there and how to get back.  The stars they’re so used to being surrounded by, their siblings, blink down at them from above, and Scott wishes they were back there with them already.

The first part of their plan achieved, Scott tries to figure out what to do next.  They don’t know that they can stand on their own, afraid of injury and gravity, and they don’t really want to try.  They know they can’t sit at the bottom of the pit forever; they may be a star, but outside of the sky, it turns out that pesky human stuff affects them, too.  They can already feel their stomach grumbling.  They’ll need the basic necessities, food and water and someplace safe and dry to rest.

It’s much easier to lay back down, though, and to close their eyes, even though it’s night.  Scott’s body wants to be awake, to be shining, to be providing light for the Earth.  They won’t get much more sleep than a nap, and that’s if they’re lucky.  They don’t really have anything better to do, though.  They lay flat on their back, pushing down their pain to focus on what’s around them, the quiet disrupted by cicadas and the rustling of leaves in the wind.

They decide they can do this.  They can try to rest for a while, get their bearings, and figure out where to go, guided by the light of their distant family.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a crashing noise, a loud shout and a sudden weight on Scott’s chest.  Scott panics, opens their eyes and pushes it off, and there’s another shout, a loud, “Ow!  Mother?”

Scott looks around, trying to get their bearings and find this mother that the person mentioned.  They can’t see anyone, though.  No one except the stranger, his hair long and haphazard and eyes big and brown, sat in a heap with a candle in his hand.

“You mean me,” Scott realizes.  “Do I look like your mother?”

“I don’t know, you could be!” the stranger shouts.  “I’ve never met my mother before, there was a whole thing with a wolf pack and a druid and it’s… kinda a really, really long story, actually, but-”

“I’m not your mother,” Scott tells him.  “I’m not anyone’s mother.  I’m the person whose rest you disrupted.  How did you even get here?  This must’ve been a steep hole to climb down.”

“Oh, no!”  He perks up, holding out his candle.  “Babylon candle, I didn’t have to walk at all.  I lit my candle -  my mom gave it to me, you know, left it along with a note explaining some things and telling me she’ll keep me safe from up in the stars, and she told me to light it and think of her, and it’d take me to her.  You sure you’re not my mother?”

“I’m not even a her,” Scott says.  “I’m not a he, either, but I’m not a her, and I’m not your mother.”

“Oh,” the stranger says, looking put out.  He fiddles with the candle, rolling it around in his hand.  “What are you, then?  Who are you?  Why are you sitting down at the bottom of a giant crater?”  He doesn’t even pause for a moment before he’s barreling onto the next thought.  “How long have you been here?  I know there was a shooting star that fell tonight, and shooting stars tend to leave craters, did you see it?  I’m looking for it.”

Scott waits for his mouth to stop, overwhelmed by all of the questions.  This boy is noisier than anyone Scott’s ever dealt with before, and the onslaught of words coming from his mouth feels like culture shock in and of itself.  Scott doesn’t think he’s thinking about a single word he’s saying, and Scott eventually just cuts him off.

“I’ve been here all night,” Scott says.

“Awesome, dude!” the human says.  “You can totally help me, then.  Where’s the star?  I came all the way through the woods to find it, you gotta help me out.”

Scott wonders if he’s being deliberately obtuse, or if he genuinely doesn’t know.  “I am the star.”

“You’re a person,” he says flatly, and Scott sighs.

“I’m a star,” they tell the boy again.  “I’m a star, and I’m in this crater because I fell here, and my ankle was injured.  I was trying to rest and recuperate when you came along and fell on top of me.”

“You’re really the star?” he asks.

“Yes,” they say.  “I’m really the star, and I’m not your mo-”

Before Scott can finish talking, the stranger is reaching into his pocket, bringing out a small bag and quickly sprinkling a powder into his hand.  Scott watches quizzically as he lays down a line in front of Scott and the powder loops around, forming a perfect circle around Scott.

“Perfect,” he says, putting the bag away and beaming.  Scott has more questions than answers, and Scott reaches out to touch the powder only to feel their fingers hit something firm.  They try again, and their fingers skate upwards along a flat, slippery surface that Scott is sure wasn’t there before.

For the first time in their life, Scott thinks they understand fear.

“What is that?” Scott asks, trying to keep their voice calm.  “What did you do?”

“It’s mountain ash,” the boy says, grinning.  “Keeps supernatural things where you want them.  It was another gift from my mom.  Or, my dad, really, but it was used to keep my mom kidnapped, or captive, or whatever, and he stole some to set her free, so, kinda from her.  I wasn’t _really_  sure it would work, but I figured that, since you’re a star, and all, and not really human, it’d keep you from running away.”

Scott is positive that what they’re experiencing now is fear.  They can feel their heart beating fast in their chest, their palms sweating.  It isn’t often that a star winds up down on Earth, but Scott has heard stories about the stars that have.  Very few make it back alive; those that can survive daily life with the humans have other things to fear, as well.  Brutal death kind of things.  Scott doesn’t know why they thought they’d be anything different; they’ve only been there for a few hours, and already they’re trapped, at this stranger’s mercy.

“What do you want from me?”

“I want to take you to Lydia,” he says, like that clarifies anything for Scott.  “It’s her birthday in a week, and I promised I’d bring you to her by then.  I think she didn’t probably expect a person, but you’re the star, and she promised if I brought you to her, she wouldn’t marry that asshole Jackson.  So I left Beacon Hills and I went into the woods, even though Deaton warned me not to.”

“I can’t go with you,” Scott tells him.  “Even if I wanted to, my ankle’s hurt.  I can’t walk anywhere.  And this mountain ash stuff can’t make me.  I just want to go home.”

The stranger’s face crumples, and Scott almost wishes they hadn’t said it, wishes they could take it back and promise something more to him.  They don’t want to be a birthday present to some girl in Beacon Hills, though, when they could be safe and sound, back up in the sky.

“What if I promised to get you back home?” the boy asks.

“How?”

The boy holds out the Babylon candle.  It’s thick and black, halfway used from his trip there.  “There should be just enough to get you back to the sky.  Once you meet Lydia, I’ll give it to you, and you can get out of here.  I just need her to see you, so I can prove how much I love her.”

The reasoning seems flawed, to Scott, but they don’t really know the circumstances.  They do know that this person is offering them a concrete, real way to get back up to safety.  And though Scott doesn’t really appreciate that they have been essentially starnapped, going to see this boy’s girl could be a little bit of an adventure.  It could be nice to have something to think about for the next couple of millennia, to tell their fellow stars about.

Not that they really have a choice, if they want to get out of this mountain ash circle.

“I might be slow, walking on this ankle,” Scott says.  “But if you promise me the candle, I’ll go with you.”

“Yes!” the boy says, jumping up and punching the air.  “This is gonna be great, dude, you’re gonna have so much fun, I promise.  And, I mean, if you didn’t come with me, I would’ve just made you sit there for a while until you decided to.  But this way is much, much easier for both of us.  And you’ll love Lydia, she’s amazing.”

“I’m sure she is,” Scott says weakly.  The boy reaches down and scatters the mountain ash with his hand, helping Scott up to their feet.   Scott wonders if this was as terrible of an idea as it feels like it might be.  Scott has no idea where they are or where to go, and this stranger seems to have the best idea of how to actually get Scott back home.

“We’ll walk for a little, and then we’ll take a break,” the boy promises.  “I’m used to late hours, but even I need to sleep sometime.  We’ll just get you a little bit away from here, and then we’ll do the camping thing.”

“Great,” Scott says.  They wince when they put weight on their ankle, but it is holding up, for now, at least.  When it’s time for a break, they can rest it, some, and maybe ask this person if he knows anything about first aid.

“This way,” the boy says, pointing up and out of the crater.  “I think,” Scott hears him mumble, and suddenly, Scott is a lot less sure that they’re going to make it out of this alive, after all.

 

* * *

 

 

The sun is bright, and never has Scott so deeply felt ill wishes towards one of their fellow stars.  They know that the sun is the only thing keeping this tiny little planet alive, but Scott is so tired, and the light is blinding their eyes, even with Scott squinting.  They feel like they’re trudging along, their feet barely lifting from the ground.  They’ve almost tripped over branches scattered along the ground a few times.  They actually did fall, once, only kept upright by the boy, _Stiles_  (“Yes it’s a name, and yes, I feel silly now that I’ve met a star and their name is less weird than mine”), and his lean arms around Scott’s waist.

Stiles was fine to travel with, at night.  He was full of energy, and he waited as long as he could to stop for the night to rest.  He snored, when they did set up camp, but since Scott wasn’t really able to sleep anyway, they didn’t mind that too much.

Now, though, it’s almost noon, and Scott is pretty sure they’re going to collapse.  Stiles keeps trying to coax them forward, impatient to get to Lydia, and he won’t stop making noise.  He walks loudly and talks loudly, and it never really stops.  He rambles on for a while about Lydia and her _strawberry blonde_ , not red, hair, about how he took her on a date with a picnic and champagne that he smuggled (but didn’t entirely pay for, because he lost his job, which _wasn’t_  entirely Lydia’s fault, okay) on the night that Scott fell.  Stiles rants almost as much about Jerkface Whittemore, who Scott has realized is actually named Jackson, and is apparently Lydia’s on-again, off-again boyfriend.  Stiles talks about his dad, the town sheriff, and about the little he knows about his mom.

“She wasn’t from Beacon Hills,” Stiles says.  “She was from the woods.  Dad met her when he snuck through them out of Beacon Hills, just like I did.  He was wandering around and he came up to a cart, or something, I don’t even know.  He was very specific about it being a cart.  But he saw my mom from the window, and he went to buy something from the druid.  My mom said it’s some sort of good luck charm, or something, for safe travels, but my dad didn’t really care.  He just bought it so he could talk to her.”  Stiles reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small figure, carved into the shape of a wolf.  “It’s rowan.  She told Dad she was from a werewolf pack.  I’m not sure how werewolf packs work, or even if she was a werewolf or not.  But apparently there was something not human enough about her that she was trapped in the druid’s cart.  The cart walls were embedded with the mountain ash, and only the druid could let her out.”

“It must feel horrible, being trapped like that,” Scott says, pulling out a little bit of energy for trace amounts of sarcasm.  Scott knows this is probably a very important story to Stiles, but Scott is exhausted and injured.  Stiles has the presence of mind to look at least a little bit sheepish.

“Either way,” Stiles continues, undaunted, “he could come in, but she couldn’t come out.  So he went in, and they banged, and nine months later, special delivery through the woods…” he gestures triumphantly.

“Stiles, can we stop?” Scott asks.  They really hate to have to ask; the more quickly they can get to this Lydia, the more quickly Scott can get back home.  They’re limping, though, moving slowly from exhaustion and from pain.  They still haven’t actually _slept_  since they hit the earth, and everything feels heavy.  Their eyelids are heavy, their limbs are heavy.  Even the triskele pendant around their neck is starting to feel heavy.  They haven’t eaten since they hit ground.  “Please?”

Stiles looks carefully at Scott for a second, and for a brief moment, Scott is genuinely terrified that he’ll say no and force Scott forward.

“Fine,” he finally says, and Scott breathes a heavy sigh of relief.  They sit down to rest with their back against a tree, wincing as their ankle bends.

“Did you pack food?” Scott asks, and Stiles grins sheepishly.

“I didn’t think it’d be this long of a trip?” Stiles says.  “But there’s a town nearby.  I was planning on us getting there before we stopped, and we could rest and get something to eat and keep going.”

“I didn’t realize you were actually planning this,” Scott says flatly, too tired to operate their filter successfully.

“You really must be tired, if you’re starting to throw shade like that,” Stiles says.  He looks down at Scott.  “Aren’t stars supposed to be sweet?”

Scott rolls their eyes, and Stiles’ face starts to droop.  “Okay.  What if I leave you here and go get food for both of us in the town?  You can sleep and I can go to a store or restaurant or something, and then we can keep going.”

“Okay,” Scott says.  It’s not a perfect solution, but they’re okay with it until Stiles talks again.

“I don’t think you’re gonna be too happy with me.”

It’s almost too much for Scott to take.  They already have every reason in the world to be upset with Stiles, and adding on another might lead to Scott hitting their breaking point.  “Why not?”

Stiles pulls the mountain ash from his pocket.  “I’m gonna let you go ahead and sleep some, but if I’m leaving you here, I gotta be sure you don’t just wander off.”

“What if I get attacked?” Scott asks.

“I won’t be gone long,” Stiles promises.  “It’s supposed to be a cloudy night, so not much light to see by.  I don’t want to be trying to find you in the dark.”

It’s not actually much of a satisfying answer, and Scott is pretty worried about it.  It’s hard to focus, though, when every piece of their body is screaming to just shut up and let Stiles go so they can sleep.

Scott thinks they say goodbye to Stiles, but they don’t remember.  All they remember is Stiles sprinkling mountain ash and quickly dozing off.

 

* * *

 

 

Scott is pretty sure Stiles must’ve gotten distracted, because when they wake up, the last of the light from the sun has faded from the sky.  Everything is dark, and if Scott weren’t a star, they’d feel blinded.  Luckily, they’re at home in the dark, and they’re able to glance around and see pretty easily that Stiles isn’t back yet, and the ring of mountain ash is still there.

“Stiles?” Scott calls quietly.  “Stiles, are you here?”

Sleeping against the tree wasn’t exactly Scott’s best idea.  Their limbs are no less sore than they were when they dozed off, and now their back is killing them from resting against the rough bark.  Their stomach won’t stop grumbling, but they can’t even walk towards the town to try to meet up with Stiles, because they’re surrounded by the ring of mountain ash.

“Stiles?” they try calling again, slightly louder this time.  There’s no response except the chirping of the crickets.

There’s nothing more that Scott can do but wait, so that’s what they do.  On the plus side, they’re used to waiting, and to finding ways to entertain themselves.  Even just thinking about the past 24 hours is a lot to sift through in their head, and trying to figure out what to make of Stiles is a challenge in and of itself.  He’s certainly an interesting character, and Scott has certainly never met anyone quite like him.  Scott isn’t sure if that’s a bad thing or not; they’re not exactly the biggest fan of Stiles’ containment methods, and Scott doesn’t entirely understand the situation with Lydia, as much as Stiles talks his way around in circles about her.

“Stiles?” Scott calls out one last time.

No one responds, and Scott decides that they’ll close their eyes, and maybe try to fall back to sleep one more time.  It’s not likely that they’ll succeed, now that it’s night, but they’d rather be asleep than have to sit there and anxiously wait for Stiles.  The thick clouds obscuring the sky make Scott nervous.  They’ve never felt so cut off from their fellow stars, and it’s disorienting, and it makes them jittery.

There’s a rustling in the bushes, and Scott freezes.  It doesn’t sound like Stiles.  Scott’s only known Stiles a day, but they’re pretty sure if it were Stiles, it would involve a lot more stomping feet and tripping over things and cursing.  All Scott can hear when they strain is the gentle padding of feet in the stillness of the night.

“Who’s there?” Scott asks, and the bushes rustle again.  It isn’t a person who comes out, though.  It’s a coyote, small, with grey fur and vivid blue eyes that shine in the darkness.  Scott knows enough to fear wild animals, especially when they’re trapped, but Scott doesn’t actually think this coyote is wild.  The coyote is still, watching Scott, and its eyes are knowing.  Scott trusts it, and if they weren’t constrained by the mountain ash, they’d reach out a hand to pet it.

“I don’t have food for you,” Scott tells it sadly.  “I’m waiting for food, too. I’m pretty trapped, here.  The person I’m traveling with left me to get food, but he left this ash stuff here.”  Scott gestures at the thick ring, and the coyote glances down at it.  It bares its teeth at the mountain ash, and Scott doesn’t blame it.  It probably reeks of magic.  “It keeps me inside,” Scott explains.  “I can’t get out unless the circle is broken, and I can’t break it.”

The coyote turns, and Scott expects it to wander away.  Instead, it pads over to the brush and grabs a fallen branch with its teeth.  It brings it back, halting for a moment.  Scott watches in silence as it tilts its head, carefully brushing away just enough of the circle that Scott can feel the walls around them give.

“Thank you,” Scott says breathlessly.  The coyote drops the branch, looking steadily on at Scott with their knowing eyes.  Scott can’t help it; they wrap a warm hug around its neck, holding it close for as long as it allows them to.

“You want to go see if we can find some food together?” Scott asks it, and the coyote leads the way down the path.

They walk slowly along, the coyote being patient with Scott and their ankle.  The night still feels very heavy to Scott, though they feel much less apprehensive now that they have a friend to walk with to protect them.  They walk until they reach an intersection, and Scott realizes they’re stuck.  Stiles never told them the name of the town that he was going to, and Scott doesn’t want to strike off down the wrong path and lose Stiles (and their hope of going home) entirely.

“Should we just wait here?” Scott asks, but the coyote doesn’t answer.  Scott looks for clues to see if there’s anything that can point them in the right direction, and they’re drawing up a blank when they see a light flick on.  Scott can make out the outline of a cottage, barely off the path.  If nothing else, they can ask for advice on where to go, and at best, they might get lucky and be offered something to eat.

“Maybe we should check it out?” Scott says.  The coyote holds back, even as Scott starts to walk towards it.

“Are you okay?” Scott asks.  The coyote follows them up to the front walkway, but when Scott goes to ring the doorbell, the coyote growls, baring its teeth.  “Is it that coyotes don’t like houses?  You aren’t an indoor animal, right?”

The coyote only growls again.

“I’ll make sure you get food, if they give us some,” Scott promises.  “If you wait just a little bit, I can-”

“Well what are you doing out this late at night?” the woman who answers the door asks.  Her voice is soft, her hair dark brown and gently curling down her back.  She has a warm smile.  “You’re lucky you found an inn, it’s supposed to start raining soon.”

“Do you have space for us?” Scott asks, surprised.  “I don’t have any money, I can’t pay you for a night here.”

“Don’t worry about it at all, tonight’s on me,” she says, smiling.  “I’m afraid I can’t let your friend stay here, but they’re welcome here on the porch, it should shield them from the worst of the storm.”

“Thank you so much,” Scott says, breathing a sigh of relief.  “You have no idea how grateful I am for your hospitality.   It’s lucky your inn was here, I don’t know what I would’ve done otherwise.”

“Very lucky,” she says, the edges of her mouth curling into a smile.  “Well, come on in, then.  What’s your name?”

“Scott.”

“Well, Scott, I’m Jennifer, and you have no idea how happy I am to welcome you into my home.”

Scott smiles, and if they had looked down for just a fleeting moment, they’d see the coyote’s teeth bared, eyes flashing vivid blue.  They’d see the faintest hint of scars cutting across Jennifer’s arms, the remnants of claw marks seared into her skin.  But Scott doesn’t.  They easily follow Jennifer’s directions, and they’re ushered into the inn.

Jennifer Blake smiles victoriously at the coyote as she double-locks the door shut behind Scott.  The coyote gives one, lone howl into the night, and then settles in to wait on the porch, listening to the muffled whispers and warnings of the obscured stars.

 

* * *

 

 

“Don’t be shy,” Jennifer says.  Scott’s only wearing a robe, soft and fluffy against their skin.  They hover next to the tub and watch while Jennifer lets the water warm, checking it periodically against her skin.  “It’s just a bath.”

Scott blushes, loosening their stance, relaxing.  “Sorry,” they say sheepishly.  “I’ve had a long day, and this bathtub seems, rather… exposed.”

Scott has never taken a bath before, but they’ve watched Earth enough to know that tubs usually have a room to themselves.  They aren’t usually hooked up to elaborate piping in the kitchen area, right out in the open for everyone to see.  There isn’t even a shower curtain, or any sort of privacy barrier.

“We’ll have to fill the water up with bubbles and oil, then,” Jennifer says.  She disappears for a moment and returns with bottles, sweet and unfamiliar scents filling the air when she unscrews their caps.  She puts the plug in the tub and lets it fill up with water, and Scott watches as she carefully pours the liquids in, bubbles frothing as the tub fills.

“There,” she finally says, meticulously checking the water again until she’s satisfied.  She turns the knob and stops the water.  “Your skin reeks of gas and dirt, so we’ll get you smelling clean again.”

Scott blushes as they carefully untie the strings of their robe, grateful when Jennifer looks the other way.  They slide into the tub, the bubbles popping against their skin, tickling them.  The tub is big, though, big enough for all of Scott to fit, and the water is warm.  Scott closes their eyes and does their best to relax, to let their exhaustion and aches melt away.

“That’s right,” Jennifer says, and Scott smiles.  “How does it feel?”

“Good,” Scott tells her honestly.  “My ankle hurts, still, but…”

“Let me just check the water temperature, then,” Jennifer says, and Scott’s eyes slip shut.  They want to tell Jennifer that it’s perfect as it is, that it feels amazing, but Jennifer seems determined to spoil them, and they aren’t going to object.  “You know, a nice soak in hot water is the best thing for injuries.”

Jennifer’s hand dips into the water, swirling the bubbles around.  Scott thinks Jennifer must be right, because they can already feel the pain in their ankle dulling.  The bubbles muffle the hum of quiet green light below the surface of the water, and Scott doesn’t see the way the scars on Jennifer’s arm become slightly more pronounced.  All Scott knows is what they can feel, the way their injury fades, the way the tension in their body bleeds out.

“It feels better already,” Scott says, and Jennifer smiles.

“Good,” she says.  “That means I’m doing my job right.  You’re practically glowing.”

Scott just grins loosely, and Jennifer’s smile is sharp.  Scott isn’t glowing - not literally.  Not yet.  But with the pain eased in their ankle and their body slowly relaxing, it’s only a matter of time.

“I’ll make you some chamomile tea and give you a massage when you’re done with your soak,” Jennifer tells them.  “I’ll be just up the stairs.”

“Thank you,” Scott says genuinely.  “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Jennifer says, and she stands, straightening her skirt.  “If you need anything, don’t be afraid to ask.”

“I won’t,” Scott reassures her, and she disappears up the stairs.

The sound of Scott’s quiet, happy hums as they pop bubbles with their fingers drowns out the sharp tang of black, black glass being sharpened just up the stairs.

 

* * *

 

 

“You can leave your bathrobe on, if you’d like, but it’d be easier if you took it off,” Jennifer tells Scott.  Scott isn’t really all that modest, or they think they aren’t.  So if it works better with the bathrobe off, they don’t mind that too much.  They untie their robe at the waist and lie down on the bed, back down, like Jennifer tells them to.

“There’s oil for this, too,” Jennifer tells them, reaching under the bed.  She’s been so nice to Scott, treating them this way, and it’s the warmest and most welcome they’ve felt since they fell from the sky.  Scott trusts her to know what oils are best; the chamomile tea was just what they needed to make their body loose and relaxed, sleepy.  Although when Scott asked how they knew so much about herbs and oils Jennifer had merely given them a cryptic smile, Scott suspects it must be something that she studied.

Scott hears the clink of glass, and they expect her to pull out a bottle.  Scott’s melting into the bed, their skin glowing faintly, and they’re ready for whatever this massage thing is that Jennifer promised.  She doesn’t get that far, though; instead, there’s a loud, banging knock on the door, the doorbell ringing two, three times.  Jennifer freezes, her hand still under the bed, and Scott waits.  She stays perfectly still for a long moment, until the banging starts up again.

“Is that another guest?” Scott asks.  “It sounds important.”

“I’ll go see,” Jennifer says, traces of annoyance on her face that even Scott catches.  “You just stay right there, I’ll be back.”

* * *

 

If Jennifer learned half as quickly as Stiles, she would know that Scott isn’t really all that great at the “staying right there” thing, especially now that Scott’s ankle doesn’t hurt anymore.  Scott is curious; they haven’t seen any people up close and in person except for Stiles and Jennifer, and the new person at the door might have some interesting stories to tell.  Scott knows the whole idea’s a bit outdated, but they’ve heard enough tales of travelers having stories that they can’t help but put on the slippers next to the bed, make sure their robe is fastened tight, check to make sure the pendant is secure, and pad down the stairs.

They sneak down, trying to observe without being seen, but it ends up not mattering; the second they wind their way around and crane their neck to see who’s at the door, they’re already being called out.

“Well who is this?” a man asks.  He has brown hair that’s been carefully sculpted, in spite of the fact that he’s lounging in the bathtub Scott used earlier.  Scott immediately averts their eyes, and the man just laughs.

“Don’t be shy,” he tells Scott.  “I don’t bite.”  He laughs, and Scott doesn’t entirely get the joke, but they offer a reassuring smile that falters when he adds, “At least, not this time of month.”

“Do you bite people at other times of the month?” Scott asks, a question they later realize was a terrible mistake.

“I’ll bite a lot more when I’m the Hale alpha,” he says smugly.

Jennifer appears, briefly, and offers the man some wine, and he considers it carefully before waving his hand at her.  “The last time anyone offered me wine, it was laced with wolfsbane.  I’ll stick to my own reserves, I’m sure they’re far superior.  Since you’ve already poured it, though, you can send it out to the boy getting my transportation out of the mud outside.  It matters less if it wolfsbane poisons him.”

Jennifer leaves, and Scott is alone with this stranger.  They don’t quite know what to do.  They can’t look at him, because, unlike Scott’s bath, there are no bubbles to hide… anything.  But that is uncomfortable in and of itself, because the man can’t seem to stop talking, now that he’s realized he could have a willing audience.  When Scott doesn’t recognize the name Hale, it’s enough to start him gloating.

“The Hales are an old family.  Rulers of the shifters, the longest-lasting werewolf pack in all of North America.  Powerful, although there are few of us.  My older sister Talia was the former alpha, and she was weak.  She didn’t understand that in order to keep power, you have to break a few necks.  Set a few fires.  That’s what the Hale family is built on.  Seeking power.  It’s how alphahood has passed on for generations.  You have to be willing to kill everyone else standing in your way.  Kill everyone around you, and then use your resources to find the pendant with the claws of the former alpha, to gain their knowledge and power.”

The man, Peter, lets his eyes flash blue, and shivers run down Scott’s back.  Jennifer slips back in through the door, but she doesn’t linger, going straight up the stairs.  “That sounds…”  Cruel, is the word that wants to leave the tip of Scott’s tongue.  They hold it in, though they aren’t sure Peter would disagree.

“Like reality?” Peter asks.  “Only the strong survive, Scott.  Only those willing to do what it takes achieve power.  I let a druid take my youngest sister to keep her out of the way, so she didn’t take my natural right to be alpha away from me.  Sometimes you may even have to get your hands messy yourself, though it’s certainly more… distasteful.  If you’re not inept, you can get other people to do your dirty work, which is what my only competition, Theo, will never understand.  He isn’t afraid to kill, but when it comes to leveraging his resources, he thinks he holds far more power than he does.”

“You’ve killed everyone else?” Scott asks.  They almost wish Jennifer were back in the room to witness this, so there would be someone else to verify how uneasy things are, or to distract Peter from his uncomfortably firm, insistent gaze, fixed firmly on Scott’s eyes.

“Some.  Hunters killed most, including Talia.  Her last act was to fix her claws into the rowan pendant and release it to the stars.”

Scott can’t help it.  Their hand goes to their neck, to the pendant hanging there.  The blue glow of Peter’s eyes seems eerily, terrifyingly familiar, now, and Scott knows they need to escape as soon as possible.

Peter’s gaze flickers away from Scott just for a moment, to peek over Scott’s shoulder, and Scott cranes their neck.  They don’t realize the pendant has slipped free from under their robe until the moment when everything goes terribly, terribly wrong, all at once.

“Your neck,” Peter says.  He reaches out, grabbing Scott’s arm, and Scott doesn’t even have the time to try to yank it back before there’s a voice behind them, irritatingly familiar as it called out, “Dude, that wine was poisoned, and if it weren’t for an aggressive coyote, that shit that fucking _burned_  the grass would’ve been in my belly.”  Scott can’t process the implications quickly enough, can’t process the fact that Jennifer poured the wine, that Jennifer took it out there.  Before they have the chance to come to grips with it, there’s a knife at Peter’s throat, Jennifer’s smile cruel as she drags the black glass blade along Peter’s neck and cuts.

Scott yanks their hand from Peter’s loosening grip, watching blood drop down into the bathwater.

“We don’t want him to get overeager,” Jennifer says.  Scott’s terrified by how prim and calm she sounds, even as she cleans her knife on the sleeve of Peter’s v-neck.  “After all, you’re mine.  You were glowing so nicely before he interrupted us.  Shall we get back to where we were?”

“Fuck,” Stiles says.  Scott’s arm is being grabbed again, Stiles’ long, thin fingers wrapped tightly around their wrist, tugging them towards the entrance.  “Come on, let’s get the fuck out of-”

There’s fire, engulfing the room, blocking the exits.  The fire glows green and bright, casting a sickly glow.  Scott can smell the burning from wood they can’t see, and the flames singe Stiles’ shirt.  They turn, trying to find another way out, a window or another door, or anything.  But Jennifer walks them closer to the door, the skin on her face becoming less smooth, paler, marked by long, dark, red scars.

“Going somewhere?” she asks, and Scott knows this is the end.  They can feel the heat of the fire as they’re backed closer and closer into the corner, can feel the last pieces of hope fading away.  They’ll never make it back to the sky.  They’ll end their life feeling scared and trapped, and they’ll bring Stiles, the closest person they have to being a real human friend, even though they’ve spent most of their time mad at him, down with them.  Stiles hasn’t let go of their hand, even as both of their palms grow hot and sweaty, and as much as Scott is terrified and angry and uncomfortable with how easily they trusted Jennifer, Scott finds reassurance in the way Stiles grips him tight.

It isn’t a happy ending, but for once in their life, Scott isn’t alone.

“Yeah, we are,” Stiles says, and Scott assumes from the waver in Stiles’ voice that it’s false bravado, Stiles’ one last ditch effort to be as Stiles as he possibly can, to never go down without having the last word.  Stiles reaches into his pocket, though, and pulls out a short, black stick.

“Think of home,” Stiles whispers to Scott.  Scott focuses on the images of their home, of the dark night and the distant stars and the quietness of space, as Stiles lights the candle.

Everything blurs, and Scott’s feet leave the ground.

 

* * *

 

 

The wind whistles, blowing rain and bitterly cold air into Scott’s face.  They shiver, even with the protection of the warm bathrobe, and their grip on Stiles’ hand slips.  They try to open their eyes, and immediately close them shut as firmly as they can, the rainwater making them sting.

The weather is way too close, way closer than Scott thinks is natural, even for living on Earth.  They squint their eyes, opening them ever so slightly, and they see that everything is gray.  The clouds press in on them, cool and misting, except the one below them, which is alarmingly firm.  It takes Scott a moment glancing around to realize where they are, that they’re in the sky, just.  The wrong sky.  The sky that’s still in Earth’s atmosphere.

“I told you to think of _home_ ,” Stiles shouts.  “I know for a fact that this is _not_  your home, what the fuck happened?”

“I was thinking of home!” Scott insists.  Their teeth are chattering, against their will, and they know they sound more unsure than they are.  “I was thinking of the sky.   _You_  must not have been thinking of home.”

“I was thinking of Beacon Hills!  You know, _my_  home, the place we’ve been actually trying to go all this time.”

“You mean the place _you’ve_  been trying to go all along, and the place you decided to drag me along to because this perfect Ms. Lydia Martin-”

“Hey, don’t you _dare_  drag Lydia into this, it’s not my fault you can’t follow instructions and we’re stuck up here, if you had just thought for two seconds and pictured the same place as me, we wouldn’t be stuck between the two, and-”

A net comes down over their heads, and it’s almost depressing how unsurprised Scott is by the turn of events.  With the way their day has gone so far, it fits that they’d be kidnapped and taken captive by things that live in the clouds.  Murderer werewolves and murderer… witches, or druids, or whatever Jennifer was.  It’s only fitting that wherever they go, there are things that want to murder them.

This time, based on the giant wooden ship they’re hauled onto, it’s murderer cloud pirates.

Great.

They’re tossed down onto the deck, still constrained by the net.  There’s a commotion, a voice calling out, “Captain, we got a new haul.”  Scott feels so tired that they don’t even have the energy to be worried.  They wonder if this is what all adventuring is like.

A short girl with long, dark pigtails bends down, her head tilting as she looks at Scott.  Her face gives away little, and Scott would say that she doesn’t look evil, and that there’s softness and empathy in her face, but their adventures with Jennifer prove that their judgment might not be the best there.

“Who are you?” she asks, a question Scott is really getting tired of hearing.  “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, we’re vacationers who thought the sky in the middle of a thunderstorm would be the best place to travel,” Stiles says, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

“Stiles,” Scott hisses quietly, and Stiles digs an elbow into their side.

“No, really,” the girl says.  “Who are you?”

Scott returns the favor and elbows Stiles before he can open his mouth again.  “We ended up here by accident, that’s all.”

“I don’t think they’re going to tell you anything useful,” the big, bulky man next to the captain advises her.  She considers it a moment, biting her lip between her teeth.

“Tie them up and throw them in the brig overnight,” she shouts.  “Maybe that’ll loosen them up some.”  The crew cheers, and the girl smiles.  Scott feels relief for a brief moment; they’re going to live to see another day, and they’ll be out of the miserable weather for the night.  The net is lifted off them.  It seems like at least a mild improvement in their situation.

Sure, they’re led to the brig, a small, cramped room.  And sure, they’re plopped down on the ground, tied together with rope that rubs at Scott’s wrists every time Stiles fidgets.

But at least they aren’t dead, or stranded.  Scott feels like their standards for what they should be happy about are getting a whole lot lower, but not being dead is still something.

 

* * *

 

 

The brig is not a quiet place.

It is isolated, sure.  After they’re left there, they don’t see anyone.  There doesn’t appear to be a way out besides the locked door, and Scott doesn’t really care enough to try and find one.  They’re tired, and they really just want to sleep.

It’s hard, though, when Stiles can’t seem to sit still.  The floor creaks every time Stiles shifts, and Scott can swear they hear the air pressing on the wood of the ship.  They think water is dripping in from somewhere, which is probably the most disconcerting bit of all.

Stiles doesn’t talk, though.  The one form of noise that Scott was expecting doesn’t come, and Scott can’t really get a good look at Stiles’ face to see what’s going on.  They wonder if everything is getting to Stiles, or if Stiles is just tired, like they are.  Scott really wants to not care.  Scott really wants to continue to be mad at Stiles, like they were before.

But Stiles is quiet, and Scott is worried.  And Stiles did come help rescue him, although Scott isn’t sure it was intentional.

When Stiles fidgets again, scraping Scott’s wrists with the rope, Scott decides to be the one to fill the growing silence, for once.

“When I was up in the sky, I used to watch what was going on down on Earth,” they start.  “There were always adventures, and I was jealous.  I thought adventures were exciting, because stars don’t have any.  I wished I could take a break, leave the sky for a bit, and have an adventure of my own.”

“That’s dreaming bigger than me,” Stiles responds.  There’s a little bitterness in his tone, and Scott wonders if maybe they brought up a sore subject by accident.  “I’m just a shop boy in a tiny town.  Or.  Was.  I _was_  a shop boy.  I lost my job, the night before I found you.  There was a thing, and Lydia visited me at the store, and I maybe kind of agreed to carry her stuff home and got carried away and tried to follow her with it before she’d actually paid for it, and it turned out my boss wasn’t really the biggest fan of that.  But I still wasn’t dreaming of adventure.  I was dreaming of getting a job in another store, a bigger store.  That was dreaming big for me.”

“I don’t know,” Scott says.  The wind whistles, and Stiles shifts again.  “I’ve seen a lot from up in the sky.  There are lots of people in the world who are shop boys.  They’re good shop boys, and there’s nothing wrong with their lives.  They’re happy being shop boys.  I don’t know that you’re one of them.”

“If you’re calling me terrible at my job…”

“You did try to leave work and carry Lydia’s stuff home before she even paid for it,” Scott reminds him, keeping their tone light.  “But I think that’s you being…”  Scott hesitates for a moment.  “I don’t know all that much about love-”

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Stiles says.  “I’m getting a lecture about love from a star.”

Scott blushes, but they don’t stop.  “I watch!  I like watching people in love.  I don’t have experience, but I wasn’t lying about watching people.  I don’t have much else to do.  And from what I know, love is unconditional, and it’s not something you can buy.  Not with stuff from the store.  Not even with a star.”

“I’m not buying her love!  I’m showing her how I feel.  Proving your feelings is legit, how many love stories is that in?”

“I don’t know,” Scott admits.  “Probably a lot.  But I do know that that kind of stuff is supposed to be reciprocated, right?  What is Lydia doing to prove her love to you?”

Stiles is still, and he doesn’t say a word for a long moment.  Scott wonders if they went too far, or pushed too much.  Scott didn’t intend to be mean; they just maybe wanted to make Stiles question things a little bit.  They don’t want to have annoyed Stiles too much, or to have upset Stiles so much that he doesn’t want to talk to them.

“Look, you’ll.  You’ll get it when you meet Lydia, trust me.  You’ll understand then,” Stiles finally says.

“Getting killed by pirates or meeting Lydia, I can’t decide which is worse,” Scott says lightly.  They don’t actually mean it.  They don’t really know Lydia, and they don’t actually think Lydia is really all that terrible.  They know they kind of deserve the elbow to the side they get from Stiles.  But it’s softer than the jab before, and Stiles seems much less tense as starts to talk again.  It’s a lot about Lydia, sure.  But Stiles is no longer silent and awkward, anxious and fidgeting and uncomfortable.

Scott is still nervous.  They’re still worried about the morning.  Their stomach keeps rumbling, and they’re a little bit chilly, and there’s meeting the captain again in the morning to fret over.  They’re still processing the fact that both they and Stiles nearly died several times in one day.

But the boy who Scott couldn’t wait to get away from before, who Scott thought brash and rude and selfish, fills the small space with conversation.  It’s loud, and at times surprisingly funny, and Scott finds themselves monumentally grateful to be with him.  For once, the chatter is reassuring, a reminder that they aren’t alone, and Scott actually manages to get enough space from the anxiety in their gut and the worries racing through their head.

 

* * *

 

 

Scott watches the body fall.

They’re seated in the captain’s office, surrounded by maps and unfamiliar contraptions, the room smelling of wood and burnt air.  The captain had brought them there, to the cheers of her crew, and had only given Scott a small wink of reassurance before returning to the deck.

Stiles had tried to feed her what she asked for.  Stiles had spun a story about him and Scott, about how they were newlyweds on a trip through the forest together on their way back to Beacon Hills.  Scott had clung close to Stiles, partly out of fear and partly to make it all the more believable.  They needed her to believe that was all there was to the story.

“We’ll throw this one overboard, I think,” Scott hears her shout, and their stomach drops.  Scott doesn’t know these people.  Stiles was becoming their friend, and Scott feels sick thinking about losing him.

There’s a commotion out on the deck, only audible through the cracked door of the captain’s office.  Scott can’t make out anything over all the noise, but Scott can watch through the window as a body falls past the window, dressed in Stiles’ hoodie and jeans.

Scott can feel the shock settling in.  The captain’s wink seems substantially less reassuring, more a warning than a salve for their nerves.  Scott wonders to themselves what is in store for them, if being spared will be better or worse.  Scott doesn’t smell like stardust anymore, after Jennifer’s oils and bubbles, and they know they haven’t been glowing since they got on the ship; there should be no way for the captain to know that they are a star.  There was no reason to pick them up, no reason to take them in, and no reason to split them up.  They weren’t hurting anyone.  They didn’t even mean to be there.  If Scott had only thought more like Stiles, they wouldn’t have been there in the first place.  They would be close to Beacon Hills, or maybe even already there.  Stiles would be wooing the girl, and Scott would be trying to figure out a way back home, and no one would be thrown off the deck.

The door creaks as it opens wider, and Scott’s heart pounds.  They force themselves to stare straight forward, their whole body tensed and their expression as steely as they know how to make it, ready to face on the pirate captain alone.  They don’t really want to fight, and they don’t really want to hurt anyone, but Scott does want to appear strong and confident, like someone who won’t be pushed around.

“Oh thank fucking god,” a familiar voice behind Scott says, and Scott’s resolve crumbles, craning their neck immediately.

The door creaks again, closing some, and there’s a hand on Scott’s shoulder, warm and big and familiar, long pale fingers and skin covered in moles.  Scott follows the line of skin up, a long neck and a familiar shock of messy brown hair.

“You’re alive,” Scott breathes, and Stiles’ face grows a shaken but shit-eating grin.  Scott gets up from the chair and pulls him into a hug, aware only once their robe rubs against Stiles’ bare skin that Stiles’ only clothing is a pair of red boxers.

“It was a trick,” Stiles reassures them.  “She used getting you into the cabin as a distraction.  I don’t think I’ve stripped and hid that fast in my life.  And there aren’t that many hiding places on the deck of a ship, you know, I had to get a little bit creative.”

“You’d be surprised how often they fall for that,” another voice says behind them.  The captain walks in, closing the door completely behind her.  “I’m going to have to stock up on dummies again soon if I’m going to keep running into people like this.  For some reason, there’s this expectation that I’m going to make people walk the plank all the time, when all I _really_  want to do is follow in my family’s footsteps.  It’s kinda exciting, you know?  Flying around in storms and chasing lightning.  But the pirating I’m not too good at.”

“Who are you?” Stiles asks.  “And why do you have to do it in the first place?”

“Oh, I didn’t even introduce myself?” she says, her eyes wide.  “I’m Kira.  Or, Captain Yukimura, to them.  Are you really who you said you were?”

“Kind of,” Scott admits.  “I am Scott, and we really are here by accident.  But we’re not newlyweds.  We’re just traveling together back to Beacon Hills.”

“Well, you’ll have safe passage there,” Kira reassures them.  “Safe passage and some new clothes, since you’ve _both_  apparently kinda… lost yours.  And we’ll need a reason for why Stiles is onboard, still, so I think we’re going to make a pit stop soon.  Go ashore so I can sell some lightning and the crew can get a break from the boat.  Scott, you can come with me and meet Marin at the shop, if you’d like, while Stiles learns how to belong on the boat.”

“Am I going to get to be a pirate?” Stiles asks excitedly, and Scott can’t help but snort.  “I am going to be an excellent pirate,” Stiles objects, his voice inflated and offended.

“He’s terrible at fighting,” Scott assures her.  “He’s going to make a terrible pirate.”

Stiles nudges Scott’s shoulder, and Scott grins.  Kira seems undeterred, though.

“I’m a terrible pirate, too, but I’m great with a katana,” she says brightly.  “I can teach you, if you want.  We can say you’re a relative, and I’m teaching you about being a pirate.”

The very real threat of Stiles knowing how to use a katana and being around Jackson doesn’t sound like the greatest combination, to Scott.  But if it means that Stiles has a reason to be on the boat, Scott isn’t going to question it too deeply.

“There’s only one condition,” Kira says, and Scott’s nerves return full-force.  They’re relieved when she finally finishes her thought.

“You have to tell me all about how things are in Beacon Hills,” she tells Stiles.  Stiles lights up at the premise of talking about home, and Scott finally relaxes.  They think that maybe they’ll be okay on this boat, after all.

 

* * *

 

 

Kira doesn’t seem too concerned about making things work smuggling Stiles along, and Scott understands why when they actually put the plan into action.  They dock for a while so Kira can take Scott along with her to sell lightning, and the rest of the crew evacuates the boat as quickly as possible.  Kira shows Scott along to Marin’s shop with the singular instruction not to touch anything, and Scott has the eerie experience of having a very knowledgeable druid talk to Kira with little acknowledgement of the fact that Scott is standing next to her.

“There are rumors about a fallen star,” is the closest Marin comes.  Her tone is neutral, and her eyes are fixed directly on Scott.  It feels like a warning, the hairs on the back of Scott’s neck standing on end.  Druids aren’t darachs, and Scott knows that they shouldn’t have anything to fear from Marin.  Kira seems friendly with her, and Marin seems fair and warm towards her.  It doesn’t stop the anxiety from settling in, though, and Scott is relieved when they finally leave the shop.

Kira buys supplies and pays her crew before they finally make their way back to the ship.  Scott holds their breath for the moment of truth; Stiles is lounging right out in the open on the deck, an apple in hand, dressed more nicely than Scott has ever seen him.  Scott doesn’t think he’s dressed _nicely_ , even still, not exactly.  But he looks good.  His jeans actually fit his nice, long legs, his torso is decked with a tight-fitting henley, and his head is shaved close, making him look younger, somehow.

“This is Stiles,” Kira says to her crew.  “He’s an old family friend, and he’s going to be learning the trade.  He’s a bit hopeless, but we’re gonna train him up.”

“Hey,” Stiles objects, and Kira winks at Scott, making them grin.

“As long as he pulls his fair share of the work,” one of Kira’s crew members grumbles, but that’s all that’s said of it. Stiles is welcomed onboard, and although it feels way too easy to Scott, they aren’t going to question any blessings they get.

 

* * *

 

 

Being on the boat is actually pretty fun, once Scott gets used to the rhythm of daily life.  It’s a different kind of adventure than they had experienced up until that point, mostly because there’s a lot less fearing for their life or wandering through the countryside.  They adjust to it pretty easily, though.  They spend most of their time up in the sky, rocked by the surprisingly gentle motion of the breeze in the ship’s sails.  The rest of the crew takes to Scott easily, though not all of them grow fond of Stiles so quickly; Boyd, Kira’s right hand man, begrudgingly accepts Stiles only at the encouragement of the navigator, Erica, but Isaac never budges an inch where Stiles is concerned.  Living on a boat is rather claustrophobic compared to Scott’s home in the sky, and it’s hard not to notice the pronounced tension coming from their two friends.  The two only manage to get along when Scott is with both of them, which has Erica and Boyd sharing looks that Scott doesn’t quite understand.

Mostly, though, being on the boat is hanging with the crew and waiting a lot.  A lot of the sailing seems a bit aimless to Scott, at first, though Kira reassures them that they’re heading towards the woods and Beacon Hills, on the other side.  Sometimes they take detours to sail straight into storms.  There’s something awe-inspiring about watching the giant wooden ship fly through the dark storm clouds, Kira stood at the helm of the ship, her eyes glowing red as she issues orders, clear and commanding in a way that sends shivers down Scott’s spine.  Kira is a force, and it makes Scott understand why the crew speaks of her as someone perceived to be fearsome.  Where her reputation came from certainly wasn’t clear before then, at odds with her demeanor the rest of the time; in spite of her initial shenanigans, she doesn’t actually seem to put much effort into seeming severe or strict.

“We spread rumors along when we stop,” Boyd tells them one day, when Scott asks about it.  “She’s a good captain.  She’s fair and capable, good with a sword and good at her job.  If people don’t realize she trips over her own feet when she’s on land, or that she’s got a soft heart, they’ll leave her and her boat alone.”

Boyd isn’t wrong.  Kira’s amazing with her katana, and she’s unendingly patient with Stiles as long as he works with her and doesn’t lay around, complaining about his sore arms.  Scott likes watching them spar, watching Stiles steadily improve.  Time seems to pass differently from up in the sky.  Stiles shouldn’t even have the time to improve, in what little time they have.  But what can’t be more than a day or two drags out longer, until Scott has lost all sense of time.  It reminds them of being back up in the night sky, where the only things that break up the length of their days are the brightness of their glow and the sleeping people on the planet below.  Erica offers no explanation beyond a small smile and a shrug, and Scott can’t make a heads or tails of how Kira can mark days off on her calendar with such certainty.  They learn to let it go.  There are far more important things to worry about, so long as they aren’t late to meet Lydia.

The amount that Stiles talks about Lydia has decreased dramatically, and Scott is grateful.  It’s gratifying to swap stories with Erica and Boyd and to hear Stiles talk about him and Scott most, to see how animated he gets and to listen to him exaggerate the story about rescuing Scott from Jennifer.  For the most part, Scott lets him; the truth isn’t honestly much less dramatic, and watching Stiles light up, his voice animated and his hands waving around while he talks about being a hero, is actually kind of nice.

Kira and the crew try to keep things relatively lively.  Erica always has music around for the quiet days, when everyone on the crew is working.  Most of the time it’s just background noise, but Scott kind of likes it.  It’s usually loud and brash and upbeat, and though Scott doesn’t recognize any of it, both Erica and Boyd know every word.  Sometimes, when they’re all on break, they hang out on deck together and dance to it, Erica laughing and pulling Boyd close.  Erica drags Stiles in, too, and when Stiles catches Scott laughing, their smile bright and dimples prominent as Stiles does the sprinkler, Stiles drags Scott right out there with him.

Scott tries to follow Stiles’ lead, waving their arms around with no shame and a giant grin on their face, and Stiles starts laughing too.

“No, like this,” Stiles says.  He presses up to Scott, holding Scott’s arm loosely and guiding it along.  Scott feels silly, but Stiles is close, touching them and smiling as brightly as Scott has ever seen him smile, and it’s encouraging.  Scott knows there’s probably an equally dopey smile on their own face, because Scott feels warm inside, their skin hot, tingly where Stiles’ hands move against them, and it’s just… nice.

“My turn, now,” Kira says, jolting Scott out of their thoughts as she reaches out her hand to them.  They grab it, letting Kira lead them out to the center of the deck.  It isn’t Stiles’ brand of dancing, more like the slow dancing Scott has seen at fancy balls and slow songs at high school dances.  It gives Kira the chance to lean in close to their ear.

“You’re glowing,” she says softly.  Scott’s eyes go wide, and they look down to see that Kira is right; there’s a soft halo of light forming around them, clean and clear and bright, faintly yellow.  Scott freezes, their heart beating fast in their chest.  Erica and Boyd aren’t looking in his direction, but Kira....

Scott trusts Kira.  Scott thinks Kira is a good person.  But there’s no way she doesn’t know, not with Scott’s skin glowing, that Scott is worth a lot of money to a lot of people.  The promise of eternal youth is invaluable, and Kira could make a fortune.

“Relax,” she tells Scott, squeezing their hand tight.  “I’ve known for, like.  Ages.  And I’m pretty sure that my crew has, too.  You’re safe here.  No one’s going to hurt you.  But you, uh.  You might want to learn to control it?  Figure out why you glow.  So you don’t give yourself away to someone who maybe isn’t so friendly.”

“I know why I glow,” Scott tells her.  “I’m a star.  Isn’t that what stars do?”

“I don’t know,” Kira says.  “Stiles, what do stars do?”

Stiles glances their way, detaches himself from the others and comes over to Scott.  He bumps his hip against Scott’s, making Scott blush.  “Attract trouble?”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Scott groans, but Stiles hip checks them again, and they glow even more brightly.

Kira smiles knowingly, but Scott is grateful that she doesn’t say a word.

 

* * *

 

 

When they dock for the last time, Scott is sad.  They got used to life on the ship, to the wind in their hair and the crackle of electricity, the easy friendships with the crew members and the softening of their relationship with Stiles.

“You’re welcome to come back around whenever you want,” Kira says as she drops them off.  Scott isn’t sure if it’s optimism or not; they’d love to spend more time on the ship, but if they’re coming back around, it means that Scott didn’t get home, or Stiles didn’t get his happily ever after with Lydia.  Scott still appreciates the sentiment, though, and they give Kira the warmest hug before leaving the boat.

Stiles’ hug with Kira lingers a little longer, Kira leaning in and whispering something in his ear.  Stiles blushes, though he doesn’t explain when he meets Scott’s curious eyes.  Scott doesn’t have time to ask; as soon as the hug ends, Kira’s handing him a familiar container, sealed carefully shut.

“It’s filled to the brim with lightning,” Kira tells them.  “Just in case you might need a little help along the way.  Be careful with the lid, it comes loose pretty easily.  It should be a pretty straightforward trip from here.  If you follow the path, it’ll take you through the woods and back to Beacon Hills.  Just make sure you stay on the path, okay?”

“We will,” Stiles promises.  “And I’ll figure out how to send you postcards from Beacon Hills, for your office.”

Kira beams.  “Then be safe,” she says as she waves them along.  Scott and Stiles wave back and walk to the worn, muddy path.  Stiles has a spring in his step, and Scott wonders if it’s that they’re back on schedule, making their way back to Lydia and Beacon Hills.

More and more, Scott wishes they weren’t, and that they could stay together on the boat forever.

 

* * *

 

 

They start to walk.

It’s a much easier walk than when they first started out, when Scott was hurt and was more Stiles’ captive than his walking companion.  There’s still some tension in the air, but Stiles isn’t as fidgety as Scott would expect, considering.  The days are dwindling until they’re supposed to be in Beacon Hills, but all Stiles does is talk enthusiastically about Beacon Hills, about the town and its people, his father and his friends.

Stiles admits to Scott that he hadn’t ever been through the woods until he came after Scott, that he doesn’t actually know much about it.  These stories, the stories of the forests, are much less reassuring than Scott would like.  There are stories about monsters, about witches and dark magic.  When Stiles starts talking about the myths surrounding the howls at night and the stories of werewolves, Scott seems even less enthusiastic about going into the woods.

Not all of the legends can be true.  Scott seriously doubts that there are creatures in the woods that eat souls, for example.  But Scott remembers the way Peter Hale’s eyes shone vivid blue as he talked about killing his family, and Scott thinks that maybe that’s one story that’s true, after all.

They follow the route along the cliffs for most of the morning, until the path curls away from the rocks and heads towards the trees.  The path widens as it merges with a mud and dust road, becoming broad enough room for a wagon or cart, though not a large car.  Scott and Stiles debate wandering along from the brush along it.  Walking right in the middle of the path seems like asking to be discovered, like announcing their presence in the open air.  But Scott remembers Kira’s reminder, and after all of Stiles’ horror stories, Scott isn’t keen to deviate from the path.

“You’re going to get caught,” Stiles insists, his eyebrows furrowed on his face, his cheeks pinked from exertion.  “We’re _both_  gonna get caught, and then I will have wandered all this way only to lose you and, probably, like.  Get my heart cut out, too.  Heart cutting out by association.”

“You have a squishy human heart,” Scott teases.  “The only one who’s going to eat it is a cannibal, or an animal.  Though maybe there’s some kind of magic spell thing that requires the heart of a sarcastic human who can never stop talking.”

“No, dude, if we’re talking about squishy hearts here, I think you top out,” Stiles insists.  “Everyone on the boat loved you, and you didn’t even have to try.  The only reason your heart isn’t a squishy human heart is because you got knocked from the sky by flying werewolf claws.”

“I’m a star, it’s totally different.  And isn’t that a Thing in magic, anyway?” Scott asks.  “Being pure of heart or something?”

Stiles’ mouth opens to talk, but the words don’t come, and his arm reaches out to grab Scott’s sleeve.  Scott expects a small nudge, the sort of gentle contact that Scott has gotten used to from Stiles while they were on the boat.  But Stiles freezes, instead.

“Someone’s coming,” he says, his voice low, tense.  Scott barely has time to take in the way Stiles’ body goes taut, the tension in every muscle, before Scott is being pushed backwards, the breath knocked out of them as their back hits the brush, Stiles’ body pressing them against the ground.

“What are you do-” Scott starts, but before they even finish their sentence, they find Stiles’ finger on their mouth, pressed firmly against Scott’s lips.  Scott waits, hears the clomping of horses’ hooves and the quiet mumbling of voices, indistinct even over the barest rustlings of the bush surrounding them and blocking them from view of the road.  Scott holds their breath, Stiles’ caution making them all the more nervous, and when the sounds of the travelers finally fade, they gasp for air.

“I didn’t want to get us caught,” Stiles says softly, apologetically.  “We have time, and you being safe is like.  Way, way more important to me.”

He doesn’t move his finger from Scott’s lips, and he doesn’t pull away from Scott.  Scott can feel the movement of every muscle, can feel the slightest press of Stiles’ elbow into their sternum.  It really should probably bother Scott, but it doesn’t.  Scott kind of likes it, the feeling of closeness, of Stiles’ hips pressed against theirs, of only being separated by the fabric of their clothes.  The darkness of the space is illuminated by the soft glow of Scott’s skin, and Scott feels like it should probably be embarrassing.

But Stiles’ finger doesn’t move, and his gaze is intent.

“Everlasting light,” Stiles says softly.  “I’d imagine that’d be kind of lonely.  Imagine if you had someone to share it with.”

The words are like a bucket of cold water, and though Scott tries to hold onto the feeling of happiness and closeness, their light dims, and their smile slips.

“Yeah,” they say softly.  “Imagine.”

Stiles picks himself back up, only kneeing Scott by accident once, and offers out a hand for Scott.  “We should, uh.  Get walking again, you know.  Now that the path seems clear.  We can duck off again if we see people.”

“Sounds good,” Scott says, but it really, really doesn’t.  If they’re going to spend the entire rest of the trip with Stiles on top of them, they’re pretty sure they aren’t going to make it to Beacon Hills alive, druids or not.

 

* * *

 

 

Scott hasn’t lost track of time the entire time they’ve been traveling.  Even when they were on the ship with Kira, they were constantly working to ensure they were aware of how much time they had left with Stiles, how many days until they’d be offered up to Lydia, then tossed aside.  At first, it was impatience to get back to their home in the sky.  But now that the Babylon candle is gone, Scott isn’t so optimistic about their chances of getting home, anyway.

Their motivation is different, now.  Now they’re sadder about the prospect of seeing Stiles in love with someone else, watching Stiles waltz off into the sunset with this Lydia Martin he talks about with stars in his eyes.

So Scott has been counting days.  But it turns out that maybe the two of them miscounted, or miscalculated, or just took longer than they should’ve.

 _Beacon Hills, two days’ walk_ , the sign at the fork in the road says.

“Lydia’s birthday is tomorrow, right?” Scott asks, stopping Stiles and pointing out the sign.  “You need me there tomorrow.”

“Yeah, Lydia’s birthday is tomorrow,” Stiles confirms.  He seems rather unflustered, and it’s almost jarring for Scott.  They feel like they’re more upset about this than Stiles, like Stiles maybe isn’t assessing this situation appropriately.

“How are we going to get there in a day, then?”

Neither of them seems to have an answer for that, so Stiles gets the two of them walking again.  There’s no remaining Babylon candle.  They’re too far out of Beacon Hills to run into anyone Stiles knows, still, so there’s no calling in a favor with a friend and hitching the rest of the way.  It isn’t a particularly busy path, and they’ve run into no one else traveling by foot.

Stiles seems one step away from giving up when Scott hears a noise, a faint creaking, rolling noise in the distance.  They turn around and squint, and when they see it’s a cart, they hold their arm out, stopping Stiles from tugging them off to hide in shrubbery.

“I know them,” Scott says when they take another glance.  It’s a familiar woman, brown eyes and smooth skin, a cryptic smile and long, dark hair.  “She’s a friend of Kira’s.”

Stiles looks incredibly skeptical, which Scott by now knows is his default expression.  “She’s a friend of Kira’s?”

“Yeah.  Marin’s her name, I think?” Scott says, dragging her name up from the edges of their memory.  “Either way, maybe we can ask for a ride to Beacon Hills, or as far as she’s going.”

It takes Stiles a long moment of hesitation before he finally agrees to the plan, and Scott figures it’s probably more down to his impatience to get back home than it is his actual trust in Scott’s ability to identify who is trustworthy.  But he follows Scott when they go to hail down Marin’s cart, and when Scott asks for a ride, Stiles doesn’t stop them.

“I am going to Beacon Hills,” Marin says.  “But I don’t have much space, and I don’t want any trouble.”

“We won’t be any trouble at all,” Scott promises.  They fix Stiles with a look so stern that even Stiles has to look sheepish.  Marin’s face is inscrutable, eyes glancing back and forth between the two of them, and Scott waits.  They’re trying to be patient, trying to project some kind of air of authority.  But really they’re all hope and a tiny thread of bravado, just enough to ask someone they barely know to let them hitchhike.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll ensure that,” Marin says.  Stiles’ whole body language changes, his hackles rising, and Scott’s stomach sinks.  They had been hoping to avoid a fight, here, but they really should’ve known better.  Stiles is distrustful to a fault, and with Marin making vague statements like that....

“Safe passage,” Stiles says firmly.  “You promise us safe passage to the edge of the forest just outside Beacon Hills.”

“I didn’t realize you were in a position to be making demands,” she says, an eyebrow raised.  “Weren’t you the one asking for a ride from me?”

“Safe passage,” Stiles simply repeats.

“Then I need something in return,” Marin says.  “Something of importance.  Collateral.”

Scott thinks to themselves for a moment, scanning their brain to see if they can think of anything they could possibly offer.  Most of the things they have aren’t all that important, in the larger scheme of things.  Their thoughts drift to the necklace around their neck, and their hand reaches up to grab it, but Marin simply shakes her head.

“Only from Stiles.”

It’s jarring, to Scott - they’re pretty sure that Stiles never introduced himself by name.  It’s enough to make even Scott a little unnerved, enough to make them wonder if this was actually a good idea after all.  They could get to Beacon Hills just a little bit late and see if Lydia accepts it, all the same.  See if she takes things a day late, if it’s bringing her the stars.

Stiles tries to offer her the lightning, first, but Marin flatly rejects it.  “I don’t want something of monetary value,” she says, and Stiles goes pale.  He reaches into his pocket and digs, his hand finally stilling and settling.

“All I have left is a rowan carving from my mother.  It’s supposed to be a good luck charm.”

“That is acceptable,” Marin says firmly, holding out her hand.  “I’ll return it when I’ve delivered you to Beacon Hills, exactly as you are now,” Marin says.

Scott knows how important that figurine is to Stiles.  They know how important it is to Stiles to have a connection to his mother, how important it is to hold the carving in his hand and know that it brought his mother and father together.  Stiles keeps it with him, imagining that his mother intended it for him, the safety and luck it supposedly brings.  Scott wants to tell Stiles it isn’t worth it.  That none of this is worth it.  That this was all just a terrible idea, and that the two of them should just run away to the countryside, build a home together and live, without worrying about Lydia.

Stiles caves, takes his hand out of his pocket and puts the wooden wolf gently in the center of Marin’s palm.

“You’d do better to think twice in the future before handing away protection from your mother so easily,” she tells them, “but I doubt you know enough for you to realize.”

“Just let us in the fucking cart,” Stiles says sullenly, and Marin smiles.

“Come inside through the back, and make yourself comfortable.  You’ll be in there a while.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Mountain ash.”

Scott remembers the sensation very vividly, still, of being trapped by it.  They don’t know quite how Marin managed it, since the two of them were able to easily enter the cart.  Maybe there’s some sort of trigger in the cloth back entrance closing, or maybe Marin did it while they were getting situated.

Either way, Scott reaches to part the cloth, and their hand hits a solid surface that most definitely wasn’t there before.

“Oh, here,” Stiles says.  He joins Scott on the floor near the entrance, and he reaches out his hand to sweep the ground free of any mountain ash that’s there.  Scott smiles gratefully at him; they don’t really need to get out right that second, but having the option there of getting out if they need to is something that’s become kind of critical from the way their trip has gone so far.

Stiles’ hand meets solid surface, too, and he freezes.

“I don’t understand,” Stiles says.  “I’ve used mountain ash before.”  He presses his hand against the invisible surface again, this time with more force.  “There’s literally no reason that this shouldn’t be working for me, I’m not supernatural.  There’s literally nothing special about me.”

“I think there’s something special about you,” Scott says, because they can’t help themselves.  Stiles ignores it, thank god, and saves Scott the embarrassment of explaining themselves.

“Maybe it’s not mountain ash,” Stiles concludes easily.  “I bet it’s some other kind of force field magic.  Marin’s a druid, right?  I can feel it when I’m around her, it’s why I got so suspicious in the first place.”

“You can feel that?” Scott asks curiously.

“Can’t you?” Stiles asks, his eyebrows furrowing.  “I could feel bad news vibes from Jennifer from a mile away.  Granted, you know, when I met her she was kind of trying to poison people and cut your heart out, but something about her kinda… smelled?  I don’t know, it wasn’t like.  Rotten fruit or anything stereotypical like that.  But she kinda made my nose itch.  And something felt off about her.”

“I didn’t notice,” Scott admits.  “Have you always noticed stuff like that?”

“There wasn’t a lot to notice, back in Beacon Hills,” Stiles says, shrugging.  “But sometimes, yeah.  I’m still not anything supernatural, though, so don’t go thinking I am.  And I don’t know why this stuff is trapping me here when it shouldn’t.”

“Maybe you are,” Scott says.  “Or maybe it’s just, like.  That thing Marin said about your mom, and protection.  Maybe you weren’t something all that much, but your mom was.”

“Whatever,” Stiles says impatiently.  He beats his hand against the barrier separating them from the outside once, twice.  A third time, with more force.  Scott knows that they should probably stop Stiles, because he’s going to hurt his hand more than he’s actually going to do any good, but Scott decides to let him work it out, instead.

It doesn’t take long before Stiles huffs, grabs the blanket Marin left back there for them, and leans his back against the mountain ash barrier, almost out of protest.

“I’m going the fuck to sleep,” Stiles says.  “Wake me up when it’s time to fight her.”

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles dozes, and Scott watches.

Not in, like, a creepy way.  Scott was informed by Kira’s crew that there is, in fact, a creepy way to watch people.  Scott couldn’t tell them that that was what used to define their existence, gazing down Earth, watching.

Besides, it’s different.  It’s different watching as an objective bystander.  It’s different watching stories like they’re on television, only invested as someone observing.

It’s different to see from up close.  To watch Stiles’ breath, slow and even, to see him shifting.  It’s different to feel the fondness well up in their chest as Stiles mumbles to himself.  It’s the fondness of someone who can’t be objective, the fondness of someone who cares.  The fondness of someone who has let time and patience and a healthy dose of forgiveness shape them, until what used to be exasperation and frustration turned into genuine concern, affection.

Love.

Scott’s mostly been trying to avoid thinking about it that way.  Scott doesn’t know how love works for stars.  They’ve heard myths of people in love who were immortalized in the stars, but never stories of stars falling and finding themselves hopelessly endeared by an obnoxious and loyal and intelligent human.

“I’m glad you’re asleep, because I’m having feelings,” Scott says.  They feel silly saying it out loud, but it feels right, for the moment, Stiles still and peaceful, and Scott left with their own thoughts.  “The only real feelings I’d had before coming here were wistfulness.  Boredom.  It gets pretty repetitive being up there, the same things happening every night, though being admired by the people down below can be pretty nice, sometimes.”

Stiles is silent, and Scott flushes.  “I’m going to be embarrassing right now.  I’m going to be embarrassing, and if you were awake right now, you’d tease me for it.  You’d call me a sap, or softhearted, or… you wouldn’t use either of those words, you’d have some sort of slang word for it.  But you’d tease me.  Because I’m gonna sound kind of silly.  But I just have some things that I need to get off my chest, and I haven’t been able to talk about it since I left the boat, and I’ve needed to talk about it most since then.  When you pushed me off the side of the road, I wanted you to kiss me.  And forever _is_  lonely, but it wouldn’t feel so lonely if I were spending it with you.”

“You know how I said I don’t know that much about love?” Scott asks.  They want to reach out and run their hand along the still-blunt ends of Stiles’ soft, short hair, but, now more than ever, they don’t want to wake Stiles up.  “It isn’t really true.  I’ve seen it.  I’ve seen hundreds of years of it.  It’s the only thing that makes watching down on you guys, on humanity, worth it.  You’re always fighting with each other, hurting each other and killing each other, lying to each other.  There’s so much hate.  It’s hard to watch, and I’ve almost given up, a few times.  But then I see all the love you have for each other.  And I don’t think there’s anything more beautiful, in the entire universe.  So, yeah.  I hadn’t felt it, before.  But I’d seen it, and I’d heard about it.  I’d heard that love is unconditional, but that it can also be unpredictable, or unexpected.  Confused for loathing, a lot, which I definitely didn’t understand until I met you.  Although, you probably deserved the loathing a lot in the beginning.  I thought you were pretty terrible.  But, now… now, I don’t hate you anymore.  I love you.”

Stiles stirs, and Scott freezes, waits until Stiles settles back down again to continue.  “My heart… my heart feels too big for my chest, like it can’t hold it in anymore.  Like it maybe doesn’t just belong to me anymore?  And, god, if you heard me now, you’d be wearing that vaguely horrified face, the one when I’m being really sappy and can’t help it, but I think maybe it feels that way because my heart belongs to you.  And if you wanted it, I’d give it to you, and I wouldn’t ask for anything back.  Or for any _proof_.  All I would want is to know if you love me too.”

Scott lets the words hang in the air for a moment.  It’s a small thing, a confession to an empty room, to a sleeping boy.  They’re words that Scott couldn’t bring themselves to say out loud if Stiles were awake, not knowing where they’re headed.  Not knowing that, soon, Stiles will be reunited with Lydia, and that Scott and Stiles will part ways.  Not knowing that Stiles probably will not ever love them back.

But Scott got the words out.  And now they can work on burying the feelings, and moving on.

They have millennia left to get over him.

 

* * *

 

 

“You may want to consider not crossing the edge of the forest into Beacon Hills,” Marin says.  She drops them off at an inn, just before the forest thickens; Lydia’s birthday is tomorrow, and they don’t want to cross through the woods in the pitch black dead of night.  Stiles rolls his eyes, hard.  Stiles is still upset with her, understandably, and he isn’t really in the mood for cryptic advice, especially cryptic advice that seems to contradict the very fact that Marin was willing to drop them off near the edge of the woods in the first place.

“You literally magi-locked us in the back of your cart for most of a day,” Stiles says, putting as much emphasis on his bitterness as he possibly can.  “I think maybe you aren’t the best person to go telling us what’s best for us.”

For the first time since Scott has met Marin, her expression is clear, and it’s rather troubled.  She lets it drop, though, not even putting forward the argument that, really, technically, she did exactly what she promised.  Neither of them was hurt, and although Scott is still feeling a little claustrophobic, they are fine.

“Here’s your carving back, as promised,” Marin says, and Stiles yanks it out of her hand as quickly as he can.  “Just remember what I said.”

“You said a lot of things, and they were all bullshit,” Stiles grouses.  But Scott thanks her for the ride, and she breaks the mountain ash line, the two of them leaving and heading for the inn to stay the night.

Stiles calms down some once they’ve gotten their room and gotten some food in their bellies.  He sits on the bed with Scott, flipping through channels on the TV, trying to find something good.  He doesn’t seem particularly satisfied with anything, though, because after a few minutes of mindless flipping, he just shuts the TV off, flopping onto his back.

“Did you mean it?” Stiles asks.

Scott starts; he had been focused on other things, his mind wandering, puzzling over Marin’s warning.  “Mean what?”

“What you said in the cart this afternoon.”

“You heard that?”  Scott’s voice is pained, and they’re nearly positive their entire face is red.  “I... I thought you were asleep, I didn’t....”

“Do you know what Kira said to me when she dropped us off?” Stiles asks, in the true Stilinski spirit of answering a question with another question.

“No,” Scott admits, finally breaking the chain.  “You wouldn’t tell me.”

“She told me that the person I loved was right in front of me all along.  And she was right.”

“You mean Lydia, right?” Scott asks.  They can’t take that risk, can’t accept what Stiles is saying at face value.  Not without clarification, without Stiles saying things directly to their face.  Because letting themselves hope, being so close to acknowledgement and having it dashed, would be crushing.

“No, I mean you,” Stiles says, sitting up so he can stare Scott straight in the eyes.  “I love you, too.”

Scott hasn’t ever kissed anyone before, and they don’t really know what they’re doing.  They don’t know the exact right angle to tilt their head, or how exactly the 90/10 percentage thing actually works in practice.  They think they heard that they’re supposed to close their eyes, though they aren’t sure how that’s supposed to work, because it would be embarrassing to miss Stiles’ mouth.

But Stiles takes care of it for them.  When Scott leans in, Stiles closes the gap, his hand on Scott’s cheek, the tips of his fingers brushing Scott’s cheekbone.  Scott doesn’t have to think about closing their eyes, because they close on their own, an instinct when confronted with the feeling of Stiles’ lips pressed against theirs, soft and plush, a little wetter than Scott expected they’d be.

They kiss again, the springs creaking from the king sized bed they’re sitting on, the one that they’re going to spend the night together in.  Scott doesn’t know what he should expect, there, whether Stiles remembers how it felt to be on top of Scott as well as Scott remembers how it felt for Stiles to be on top of them.  Scott wonders if Stiles knows how badly Scott wants to press every inch of their body against Stiles’.

“I love you,” Scott says, and Stiles smiles.

 

* * *

 

 

The morning light is soft, tinted blue and dulled through the thin curtains.  Stiles is grateful.  He doesn’t think he could deal with the harshness of the sun right now, not when he wants nothing more than to continue sleeping, to rest next to Scott.  There’s a low grade ache that he feels in his core, his muscles protesting when he carefully eases himself up, the bed creaking quietly under his weight.

It’s only through sheer force of will that Stiles manages to get out of bed without getting his legs tangled up in the sheets.  He slides open the bedside drawer carefully, pulling out his pocket knife.  He holds his breath, focusing all his effort in keeping his hands still and steady as he reaches down.  He cuts so, so slowly, his heart pounding, praying that he won’t wake Scott.

He places a lock of Scott’s curly hair into a pouch and puts his clothes on, tucking the pouch into his pocket.  He grabs his katana, straps Kira’s tube of lightning to his back, and slips out the door, closing it carefully behind him.  He makes his way down to the lobby of the inn, the owner snoring from behind the front desk the only person in sight.

“Can you take a message for me?” Stiles asks, ringing the bell on the desk with his hand.  “It’s important.

“A message?”  The owner stirs, blinking his eyes sleepily.

“Yes, a message,” Stiles says.  “Get a pen and paper and write it down.”

The owner obeys, though he looks rather disgruntled about it.  “Who am I taking a message for?”

“The person I was traveling with,” Stiles says impatiently.

“Oh, you mean the boy-”

“Not a boy,” Stiles says insistently.  “But, yes, them.  Look, can you just hurry this up, I really need to get going, I want to get back before they wake up.  So you don’t actually have to deliver this message, hopefully.  But you might have to, so, just.  Just write this down for me, okay?”

“Fine,” the owner says, and Stiles tells him what to write.  The second the owner’s pen leaves paper, Stiles makes him hold it out to let Stiles review it, and when he’s satisfied, he folds it up and hands it back.

“If they come downstairs, you tell them that, okay?  I’ll be back.”

“Fine, fine,” the owner says, settling back into his chair.

Stiles walks quickly out the door, his haste seeming even more necessary now.

 

* * *

 

 

“It’s awfully small,” is the first thing she says.

Her green eyes are skeptical when she gazes upon the small pouch in her hand.  Stiles wants to laugh, almost; only Lydia Martin could be faced with a glimpse of part of a star and still be critical.

“It’s only a piece of it.”

Lydia’s lips purse, for a moment, and it’s almost thoughtful.  It’s not the kind of lip purse that spells out that Lydia is figuring out just how quickly she should eviscerate him, or the kind of lip purse that spells out that Stiles has done something embarrassing (again), and she’s trying to figure out how to be witty and blunt about it all at once.  Her eyes wander, taking in his appearance, the clothes he got from Kira and the way his hair has changed.

“You look nice, Stiles.”

A few weeks ago, Stiles might have glowed under the praise.  Having the girl he crushed over for most of his childhood praising his appearance is a deeply gratifying and satisfying experience.  He can’t help but smile back at the soft curiosity in her tone, and Stiles _expects_  for it to fill him up, to make his heart beat fast and his face flush.

“It was an interesting couple of weeks,” he says, trying for cryptic, or heroic, or something.  He probably does seem pretty heroic, by all accounts.  He met a star and saved them from near-certain death, he traveled with a ruthless werewolf murderer.  He learned to fight from a captain of a pirate ship.

“You look more mature,” Lydia says, her voice curling around the words, “even with your hair buzzed.  It doesn’t even matter that you brought me only a piece of the star you promised.  It’s not the star I really want.  I think we both know what I really want.”

Lydia’s face is suddenly very close, her soft, glossy lips approaching his.  Stiles should be doing cartwheels in his head, should be practically internally pumping his fist into the air.  But it feels hollow, this abrupt interest.  After all this time wanting and waiting, it should be the most satisfying feeling, but Stiles mostly just wants to ask her _why_.  If she and Jackson are on the outs, or if she really is so desperate to get out of Beacon Hills that Stiles, now an adventurer between worlds, seems like an appealing option.

And there’s the not insignificant fact that her sparkly pink lips seem much less appealing than the soft, pillowy ones Stiles kissed the night before.

Stiles is just about to stop her, about to tell her thanks but no thanks when there’s a shout behind him.

“What the fuck, Stilinski?”

Jackson stands there, his cheekbones just as angular and his face just as obnoxious as Stiles remembered it.  Stiles can’t feel the traces of the bruise that Jackson left on his face the last time they met anymore, but the memory is there.

“Do I need to punch you in the face again?” Jackson asks, his voice smug, and what might once have stung now makes Stiles gleeful.  He reaches down to his side and pulls out his katana, holds it out for Jackson to see.

“Go for it,” Stiles says, smirking at the way Jackson takes one step backwards.  Stiles isn’t gonna use it, because he’s pretty sure Scott would kill him if he swung at Jackson with a sword, but it’s satisfying in and of itself to watch Jackson stumble over his own feet.  “But you don’t really need to worry about it.  If Lydia wants you, she can have you.  It turns out I’ve found someone much better for me.”

It’s amazing and unsurprising to Stiles how quickly Lydia recovers from that.  “You didn’t even bring me the star itself, anyway,” Lydia says primly.  She holds out the pouch.  “Why would I want a handful of stardust?”

Stiles’ stomach sinks as he sees the contents of the pouch sparkling in the sunlight.  The realization hits quickly, the rock sparkling innocuously as Marin’s warning echoes in Stiles’ ears.

“Fuck,” he says, sheathing his sword.  “Fuck.  I gotta go.  I gotta go, right now, you two be happy forever after, or whatever.”

Stiles doesn’t even wait to get his pouch back.  He just runs, his thighs aching and his feet pound the ground below him, his breath coming ragged as he runs.

If he lets Scott cross over into Beacon Hills, all that will be left of the person he loves is a pile of stardust.

 

* * *

 

 

Scott wakes up at noon, and it’s the most disorienting sensation they’ve ever experienced, opening their eyes up to the sun in the sky.  They take a moment to relish in the feeling of actually _sleeping_  when Stiles did, for the first time ever, of being able to sleep when their body aches to be in the sky, lighting up their own little world.

“I can’t believe I managed that,” Scott says softly.  They wait from a response from Stiles, some sort of disgruntled remark about how, even now, Scott is too awake.  But no response comes, and Scott glances at the bed next to them.

It’s empty.

“Stiles?” Scott calls, just in case he’s in the bathroom, or something.  But no response comes, and suddenly everything comes rushing back.  It’s Lydia’s birthday, and Stiles probably went ahead early.  He probably went to find her, and Scott… doesn’t know what that means for them.  They feel unsettled, thrown off balance by the abruptness of waking up alone after the intimacy and closeness they felt with Stiles the night before, emotionally and physically.

Scott puts his clothes on.  They figure that Stiles probably just went downstairs to get breakfast, or something.  They gather their belongings and fit them into Stiles’ backpack, slipping it on their back and making their way downstairs to the lobby.

“There’s a message for you,” the owner says before Scott gets out the door.  “Stiles says he’s gone to find Lydia.  Because he’s sorry, and he’s found his true love, and he wants to spend the rest of his life with them.”

Scott feels sick, almost distant from their body as they walk out of the inn.  They don’t know what to do.  If Stiles loves Lydia, or if.  If Stiles loves Lydia _more_.  There’s nothing Scott can do about that but try their best to be understanding.  Maybe Stiles left because he didn’t want to tell Scott to his face.  Maybe he just wanted to, like.  Save Scott the embarrassment of falling apart in front of Stiles, after Stiles heard Scott embarrass themselves talking about how much they love Stiles.

Scott doesn’t regret loving Stiles, or being open about it.  Scott doesn’t regret the night before, or letting himself feel in love, letting himself feel for that moment like Stiles loved them just as wholly.  But their heart hurts, and their stomach feels squidgy.  Stiles probably still needs them; without Scott there, Stiles can’t show Lydia that he did what he promised, he brought her a star.  It’s a terrifying premise, facing Stiles and meeting Lydia, now that Scott knows.

But Scott doesn’t have anything else to do, so they start walking towards the woods.

The woods are eerily quiet, unnerving to Scott.  They know there’s a lot of magic in these parts, that magic pools where worlds align.  The forest feels foreboding, almost ominous, the trees pulling close around Scott, like a warning.   _Turn back_ , they whisper with their branches.  Scott pushes forward, numb to everything.

They see the light breaking in the clearing ahead, where the woods thin to the boundary into Beacon Hills, when a clear voice breaks through the fog in their head.

“Stop!”  Scott obeys, if only out because they’re startled, and turns around to see Marin, sitting at the front of her cart.  “If you don’t stop, you’ll die.”

This time, they listen.

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” Scott admits.  “Stiles is in Beacon Hills.”

“You can’t linger here,” Marin says.  “There’s magic here beyond what you feel in the trees.  Someone’s coming.  Someone dangerous.  Someone that, soon, even the trees of the forest can’t contain.”

“Oh, the star and I are already acquainted,” a familiar voice says.  Just when Scott thought the day couldn’t get possibly worse, Jennifer emerges from the shadows.  Her face is more scarred than Scott remembers, the red of even the most faded of her scratches vivid against her pale skin.  “They’re going to come with me right now.  There are other presences in the woods today, ones that are even more at home in these woods than me.”

Marin gets up from the cart, walking to stand in front of Scott, taking her position as firmly as she can.  Jennifer only smiles, her teeth bright white against the red of her lipstick.  There’s a gust of wind, Jennifer’s hands glowing brightly, her hair blowing behind her.  It’s terrifying, seeing the wildness in Jennifer’s eyes; Scott has never seen her as anything less than perfectly put together, and there’s something sinister even in the way her skirt twirls in the storm she’s manufactured around herself.

Scott can barely follow what happens next.  There’s a crack of light, a flash of color from Marin.  The wind whips, and Scott can feel the electricity crackling in the air, the intensity of the light so bright that Scott can’t even keep their eyes trained on it for long.

Marin falls to the ground, and Jennifer smiles.

“Now then,” she says, turning to Scott, her hair a frizzy halo around her head.  “Unless you’d prefer to throw your heart to the wolf that’s tracking you, you’re coming with me.”

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles runs out of breath about ten minutes before they hit the edge of the woods, but he keeps running through the splitting pain in his side.  If he can stop Scott from crossing over, it doesn’t even matter if he has to deal with cramps and dehydration.  He plans to run along the path to the inn, hoping and praying that Scott is still fast asleep in their bed.

Stiles is barely into the woods when he sees Marin, nursing her wounds and breathing shallowly on the floor of the forest.

“The darach has Scott,” Marin tells him.  “The dark druid.”

“Fuck,” Stiles says.  He doesn’t know how to find them, and has no idea how to even start searching.  “Where are they?”

“The legends state that the darach’s most powerful sacrifices are at the core of the forest, on the magical beacon that gave your town its name.  You have to find the nemeton.  The darach will be there.”

“And I’m guessing this doesn’t come with a map,” Stiles says sarcastically.

“Your mother’s family has strong connections to these woods,” Marin tells him.  “You have her protection.  The woods are your home.  They should guide you to where you need to go.”

“So more fucking wandering in the woods,” Stiles grouses.  If Scott is kidnapped, though, he doesn’t really have a lot of time to waste complaining.  “Don’t die.  I’m still pissed at you, but I don’t want you dead.”

“I’ll recover,” Marin says.  “You go.”

It’s all the instruction Stiles needs.  He takes a deep breath, ignores his protesting legs, and starts to run deeper into the woods, in the direction that feels right.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles was like 95% sure that this whole “the woods will guide you” thing was bullshit.  It reminded him of the whole “follow your heart, follow your dreams!!” stuff that people in movies always said.  But then he remembers that he’s chasing after a fallen star and a druid, or darach, or whatever.  Everything is a little bit wonky, and putting his faith in a bunch of trees is just as valid as anything else he could possibly do.

But Marin was right.  Stiles feels a tug in his gut, an odd sort of instinct.  He gets to a fork in the path and just _knows_  he has to go left.  He can feel in the air that he’s headed towards power, power that feels almost dirty, unclean.  It’s still dizzying, nonetheless.

Dizzying enough that once he gets closer, he loses his focus, his energy and thoughts poured into getting one foot in front of the other, drawing nearer and nearer to the source.  His footfalls fall solidly, only tripping over roots once.

Until he barrels into someone, nearly knocking them down.

“God, who are _you_?” Stiles asks before he even gets a good glimpse.  “I swear to god if you say you’re some kind of kelpie or fairy or something, I’d actually fucking believe you at this point.  But I’ll fight you if I have to.  Some kind of boss test, or something.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” they say in response.  Their hair is a light brown or a dark blonde, Stiles is honestly terrible at telling the difference.  Their eyes, though, when they flash them, are not so ambiguous.

They’re a bright, vivid blue, and Stiles wants to groan.

“Right, werewolf.  Killer werewolf.  You know Peter?  Peter Hale?”

The stranger bares his teeth, the incisors elongated and everything sharp enough to probably cut through Stiles’ skin like butter.  “Do _you_  know Peter Hale?  You look very, very familiar.”

“Met him, didn’t like him, watched him get killed,” Stiles says glibly.  “But I don’t know you, this isn’t any kind of happy reunion.  But, like, look, I’m kinda in a hurry right now, if you wouldn’t mi-”

The guy grabs at Stiles’ shirt, his claws poking through the fabric.  His face gets uncomfortably close to Stiles’, close enough to feel pretty damn menacing.  “I’m his youngest blood relative, Theo.  You saw him die.  You know the star.”

“Can we maybe not with the manhandling?” Stiles asks.  “Yes, I know the star, and yes, I’m tracking them down right now, and if you’re gonna get all claws-y on someone, maybe you might want to consider the person that’s trying to kill the star first.”  Theo takes a second before backing up, letting go of Stiles’ shirt.

“You’re coming with me,” Theo says.  “They have Talia’s claws.  I want them, and I’ve killed every other Hale to get them.”

“As long as you don’t kill Scott, dude, you can lead the way,” Stiles says.  “Since apparently I have a habit of traveling with murderous Hales.”

Theo starts to walk, confidently striding ahead of Stiles.  Stiles rolls his eyes, but he follows, reassured when Theo’s path follows the thrum that Stiles feels in his gut, the feeling of getting close to the nemeton, and Scott.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles’ nose itches.

It shouldn’t be his focus at the moment.  Scott is sprawled out on a giant tree trunk, about to be sacrificed, their heart taken and eaten.  There’s an animal skull sitting on the ground.  Theo is standing in front of Jennifer, standing at his full height, though that height is not nearly as impressive as he seems to think it is.  Theo tries to swipe at her with his claws, but she just smiles.  She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a powder, dumps some in her hand and blows it in Theo’s face.

Theo crumples, and Stiles’ nose itches.

“What is that stuff?” Stiles asks.  There’s no point in not asking; if he’s going to die, then he at least wants to die having his curiosity satisfied, and it’s not like hiding will keep Jennifer from knowing he’s there and trying to kill him.

“Wolfsbane,” Jennifer tells him, capping it back up and replacing it in the pocket of her skirt.  “I got these scratches on my face many years ago, but no time is too distant to avoid carrying wolfsbane with me in these woods.  I’m sure it bothers you, even.”

It’s disorienting and unnerving to Stiles that everyone seems to be playing a game of “make cryptic comments about Stiles”, and he dithers over whether it’s something he should admit.  Jennifer takes his silence as an admission, though, so it doesn’t matter all that much, anyway.

“Hale blood,” she says.  “Not enough werewolf to be as sensitive as your little friend here, but enough to slow you down some.”

“He’s not my friend,” Stiles clarifies, because it’s important to get his priorities straight.  “But I’m not magic.  There’s not a shred of magic in me, so.”

“Well if that’s the case…”  Jennifer lifts her hand, and carefully, almost lazily flicks a small ball of light at him.  It travels quickly, too quickly for Stiles to be able to do anything, only long enough for him to see it and realize.

It stops just short of his face, and it fizzles.

“I don’t know why it did that,” Stiles admits.  “But I’m really, really glad it did.”

“You have protection,” Jennifer says.  Everyone keeps telling Stiles that.  It makes him wonder who his mother was, that her carving is such a powerful talisman.  It gives Stiles hope that he can actually do this, that he can maybe fight a druid and save the person he loves.  Stiles takes a deep breath and reaches to his sheath, slowly drawing the katana and holding it out.  He advances, hoping that the unexpected failure of a direct magic attack will shake Jennifer enough to buy him some time.  Theo’s body is still sprawled on the ground in front of him, and between that blockade and the trees, the space between Stiles and Jennifer is more crowded than he’d like.  Stiles gets a solid swipe in, but Jennifer moves out of the way, and he only swipes her blouse, drawing barely the smallest bit of blood.

“Why don’t we get him out of the way,” Jennifer says mildly.  Stiles watches as she lifts Theo up with magic, his body arching as he floats.  Jennifer sets Theo down on the ground in front of her, and when she smiles, Stiles feels an incredible sense of dread in the pit of his stomach.

“Why don’t we help you out a little?” she asks, and she reaches for the animal skull.  Stiles thought it was just some sort of macabre decoration, and the fact that Jennifer holds it like an old, important friend is alarming to him.  He’s confused as to what she plans to do with it; beating Theo over the head with it doesn’t seem like the most effective method.

What she does is much, much more horrifying.

She takes the oversized skull and easily fits it over Theo’s, mumbling a few words that Stiles can’t quite catch.  Her hands start to glow, and the skull shrinks slightly, fitting itself to Theo’s head.  Stiles knows he should probably stop her now, while she’s distracted, before she does… whatever it is she’s trying to do.  But Stiles watches as Theo’s eyes open up and go wide, his shoulders tensing and his hands forming fists.

“Uh, Theo, dude?” Stiles says as Jennifer takes her hands away.  “Right now might be a good time to take that thing off your head.  Unless you plan on headbutting Jennifer, in which case, be my guest, go for it, dude.”

Theo takes a step towards Stiles, and Stiles gets the feeling that maybe this is one of those times when his very wise advice is not going to be followed.  Stiles holds out his katana and Theo continues to advance, like he doesn’t even care that he doesn’t even have his claws out while Stiles has very, very sharp metal pointed in his general direction.

“I’ll just let Theo take care of you,” Jennifer says, “while the star and I become reacquainted.”

 

* * *

 

 

When Scott awakes, their head aches, and their vision is blurred.  The sunlight is bright, and they can hear shouts in the distance, drowning out the rustling sound of leaves of trees Scott can’t see clearly.  They close their eyes again to give themselves a moment to wake up.  The surface beneath them is hard and flat, smooth, and their whole body feels sore.

They blink their eyes open again, squinting to let them slowly adjust.  They try to sit up to stretch and see what is going on, who is making the soft grunting noises, the clank of metal.

Instead, Scott discovers the rough press of fiber binding their wrists and ankles together.  And then there are hands, fingers thin and pale, pressing them back down.

“Welcome back,” Jennifer says, her voice high and sweet.  There’s a smile, deceptively innocent.  Scott struggles against the rope, against her hands.  “Do you want to watch before I take your heart?” she asks them.

“What’s going on?” Scott asks, but Jennifer doesn’t answer.  She merely eases them upwards so they’re sitting up.  They glance down, first, and are perplexed by the surface they were sleeping on, the unnaturally smooth surface of an enormous tree stump.

“The nemeton,” Jennifer explains, seeing their confusion.  “Stars don’t fall very often, you know.  I need to ensure that I make the magic in your heart last as long as I can.”

Scott doesn’t know what to say to that.  It’s unnerving, to them, hearing how calmly she talks about killing them, how comfortable she seems with the idea of cutting them open.  But there’s another clash of metal, and Scott is drawn away from morbid thoughts.

“That all you got, you douchebag?” a voice says, and even the sound of it is enough to draw Scott from their fear.  There’s a rush of hope, and of confusion.  They would know the sound of that voice anywhere.  They recognize the tall figure, everything from the fighting stance that he spent so long perfecting to the hair buzzed short.  They recognize the aggressiveness, the inability to stop talking, to stop taunting, even when he doesn’t have the breath to spare on it.

They recognize Stiles, and their heart beats fast in their chest.  Stiles looks amazing, fighting a creature with a skull on its head, a creature half his height but twice as buff and twice as fearless, like the limitations of the human body don’t apply to it.  The creature swings at Stiles with a heavy branch of a tree, and Stiles blocks, the sword cutting through more of the wood than Scott would have expected.

Stiles is fighting a creature.  Stiles is _here_ , and not with Lydia.

Stiles came back for them.

“Stiles,” Scott shouts, before they can stop themselves.  Stiles glances over and sees Scott, and, with a sinking feeling in their gut, Scott immediately realizes that they probably should’ve not said anything.  All it takes is a second, one moment of Stiles’ katana faltering, before he’s pressed with his back against a tree, his hands pinned.

“This really isn’t the most comfortable,” Stiles says, aiming for flippant even as his voice shakes.  “I mean, really, I’ve never had tree burn before, but I’m guessing it sucks.  And having a sheath digging into your side?  Really never the greatest feeling in the world, you know.  You’re welcome to loosen up a little bit.”

Theo doesn’t say a word.  Instead, he just pushes Stiles back further.  Stiles yelps in pain, squirming in Theo’s grip.  “Jeez, dude, this canister shoulder strap is not liking the roughhousing, can we maybe-.”  Stiles freezes, his eyes growing comically wide.  “Right.  Canister.”

Scott realizes what’s going to happen almost immediately, Kira’s warning clear in their memory, “Be careful with the lid.”  Stiles’s hips swing, pushing away from the bark of the tree and slamming back into it, making a loud thunk as the canister holding Kira’s lightning knocks against the tree.  Stiles’s face twists up in concentration, and he shifts again.

“Right,” Stiles says.  “You’re gonna have to give me a little bit of space here.”  Scott expects Stiles to knock the canister again, but instead, Stiles’ leg comes up, his knee slamming between Theo’s legs.  Scott doesn’t think it has exactly the intended effect; Theo doesn’t double over, or even cry out in pain.

But he does back away and loosen his grip on Stiles, and that’s all Stiles needs to get one arm free.  His hand reaches down for the lightning canister, easily knocking off the lid.

 _You missed_ , Scott thinks frantically.  The lightning races out of the canister going straight up, the air crackling with the force of the electricity, even as far away as Scott is.  They have to close their eyes for a moment to avoid being blinded.

When they open them, Theo is still standing there, totally unharmed.

Until a second crack comes, the crack of a giant tree branch.  It falls, coming down faster than Scott would’ve expected.  Stiles is on the ground about a foot away, blown back by the force of the lightning, when the third and final noise rips through the air, a sickening crunch.  The branch hits the skull surrounding Theo’s head squarely in the center, and Scott watches as the bone fragments and breaks.

Theo’s eyes flash blue, and he turns on Jennifer.

Scott holds their breath until Stiles stands up, looking a little bit dazed but okay.  As Jennifer inches further away from Scott, forced into a confrontation by a werewolf she shouldn’t have brainwashed, Stiles comes closer, grabbing his sword and running up to the nemeton.

“Here,” Stiles says as he carefully slices through the rope.  Scott flexes their wrists as Stiles frees their ankles.  “Are you okay?  She didn’t hurt you, right?”

“Didn’t even pull her knife on me,” Scott says, dismissing the thought quickly.  “I’m okay.  Better than okay.  You came back for me.”  Scott can’t help the surprise in their voice.  The awe.  “I thought…”

“Of course I came back for you,” Stiles says breathlessly.  “I love you.”

Scott wants more than anything to kiss Stiles until their lips are sore and raw.  They want to hold them close, to lay together and have the soft morning together they were deprived of.  The giant magical tree stump they’re on isn’t the best place for it, so Scott doesn’t.  But they do say it back, _I love you_ , their heart so full it feels like a rush, their skin lighting up, soft and glowing.

There’s a loud gunshot, drawing their attention away from each other.  Theo’s chest appears to be oozing black goo, and Jennifer looks terrifyingly satisfied.

“Well, thank you,” she says to Stiles.  “It looks like you may have done my job for me, getting the star to glow.  It makes for a more powerful heart to have a happy star, you know.”

Stiles holds out his katana, ready to face Jennifer down.  Scott knows they could probably fight.  Scott knows that Jennifer isn’t to be underestimated, though, and the idea of anyone getting hurt on account of them, especially Stiles, is terrifying.

“Don’t fight her,” Scott says softly to Stiles.  They reach out for Stiles’ hand, every movement feeling important and tense.  “I need to do this.  Just close your eyes.”

More than ever, Scott expects Stiles to protest, to bring up that Scott doesn’t know how to fight.  Stiles doesn’t say a word, though, trusting Scott with his life.  Stiles’ eyes scrunch shut, and Scott’s slide closed.  They let themselves think about home and about Stiles, about being with Stiles and about hearing Stiles say those brief, magic words, “I love you.”  They drag out every happy memory they can think of to fuel them, letting it bubble up to the surface, holding the feeling inside.

And then they let it go, clinging to Stiles as they feel the energy expanding outward, a flash of light so bright it dwarfs the sun.

It takes a moment before things settle back down.  Scott feels drained, like they could sleep for a month.  But they look around, and Jennifer is gone, the ominous overtones that had settled over the clearing lifted.

“Holy shit,” Stiles says, voice rough.  “What did you just do?”

“I did what stars do,” Scott says. “Stars shine.”

“Why didn’t you do that the last time we met Jennifer?” Stiles asks, looking at Scott like they’re something magical, or incredible.  Scott’s cheeks heat up.

“A star can’t shine with a broken heart.  I love you, and you came back for me.”

“Where did the darach go?” Stiles asks.

“She was a creature of darkness,” Scott explains.  “There was no way for her to survive the brightness and force of the blast.  The love drowned out the darkness.”

“God, you’re a badass,” Stiles says, and Scott can’t help but laugh.  Stiles leans in to kiss them, and Scott feels giddy with it, even with the exhaust that’s sinking into their bones.  One of Stiles’ hands cups Scott’s cheek while the other rests on Scott’s chest.  Scott presses in closer, their lips slotting perfectly with Stiles’, and Stiles’ hand tightens, gripping more firmly at the fabric of Scott’s shirt and tugging.

Scott doesn’t realize the chain of their necklace has broken until they hear the quiet clink of the metal chain hitting the nemeton.  They let it sit there, for just a moment, focusing more on the fact that they’re alive and in love and loved in return than they are on dropped jewelry.

Stiles pauses, though, and reaches down for it.  “Here,” he says, holding it by the box and offering it up to Scott.  “It fell.”  Scott freezes, though, when they notice the red glow of the claws embedded there, and they look at Stiles’ face, ready to tell him.

Stiles’ eyes shine ruby red.

“What the fuck?  Why’s it doing that?” Stiles says, holding up the box to get a closer look.  Scott knows it knocked them out of the sky, which means there must be something magical about it.  They know that it hasn’t glowed red at all, the entire time they’ve had it, and that Stiles hasn’t touched it before, so it must be something unique about Stiles.  Scott thinks carefully about everything they know about it.

“Peter,” Scott says, the realization dawning.  “Peter tried to take it from me.  He said it was a Hale thing.  That the last surviving Hale heir who found it would become alpha.”

“I’m not a Hale, or a werewolf,” Stiles says skeptically.  “I feel like maybe you need to be both.  Or either.”

“What if you are,” Scott says, the pieces slowly fitting together.  “Or maybe not a werewolf, but, like. _Something_.  You couldn’t leave the mountain ash circle.  And you didn’t know your mom, and Marin kept making all those hints…”

“The woods knew me.  And Jennifer said I had Hale blood.”  Stiles looks more than a little bit shellshocked.  “How the fuck am I supposed to lead a pack if I’m a non-werewolf who only really knows that Hales are douchebags?”

“With practice?” Scott suggests.  “And a very patient star at your side.”

 

* * *

 

 

It turns out that it isn’t just Scott helping Stiles struggle to understand what happened.  Within days of the necklace finding its permanent home around Stiles’ neck, instead of Scott’s, Stiles gets a visit from Deaton, who sits him down and explains everything.

“There’s a ritual,” he tells them.  “A ritual in which you will be announced as the last remaining Hale blood, and as the new alpha of the pack.  But you have to learn first, before you are given that authority.  You have to grow to understand the history of the pack, its significance and your responsibilities.”

“Responsibilities,” Stiles whines.  “It figures that I picked up a necklace to be nice to Scott and ended up with _responsibilities_.”

But the time passes, more quickly than the two expect.  Stiles learns, working with the pack and with Deaton and Marin.  Some Stiles can learn from the library, but much of it is behavior and culture and history which is best passed orally, and through immersion.  Scott spends most of their time with them; Scott isn’t a werewolf, and they aren’t the alpha, but he wants to become pack, to find a new family in their boyfriend’s new home.

Finally, Deaton decides that Stiles is ready, and in front of the pack, Stiles assumes his birthright.  After, there’s a party, and while Scott dances with the children, Stiles tucks away off to the side to watch.

“I brought you something,” Marin says.

Where a few years ago, Stiles might have rolled his eyes and denied it on principle, he smiles at Marin warmly, now.  “You didn’t have to.”

“I think you’ll appreciate it.”

She hands Stiles a small, wrapped box, and although Stiles thinks that common courtesy probably says he should save it for later, with the rest of the gifts, he gets impatient.  He tears through the paper and opens the box.

Inside, there’s a small candle, familiar even after years without seeing one.

“You found us a Babylon candle,” Stiles says.  He takes it out of the box and holds it in his hand, the wax soft against his skin.

“Your star’s home is in the sky,” she says gently.  “And someday, when you’ve lived a full life, they might want to return there.”

“Thank you,” Stiles says sincerely.

He shares it with Scott, after, when they’ve retired to their home, and Scott’s eyes grow soft and wistful.

The two of them live their full life.  They lead together for 80 years, and the Hale Pack finds balance and peace with Stiles as alpha and Scott at his side.  They raise children and enact change, officially abandoning the tradition of killing off the bloodline to determine the next future alpha, for once and for all.  Their children have children, and Scott spoils them all rotten, running around with them, years older but still soft and strong and full of energy.

Scott and Stiles’ love is as ageless as them, and they have the joy of watching their pack and family grow.  After all, whoever possesses the heart of the star has eternal youth, and Scott gave Stiles his willingly and completely, brimming with love.

But their children grow old, and Scott and Stiles don’t.  And Scott grows more and more homesick.  Stiles sometimes catches them, glancing up at the night sky, a look of longing in their gaze.

“I think it’s finally time to bring you back home,” Stiles says one morning, and Scott kisses him long and hard.  They say their goodbyes and prepare their successors, ensuring that the newer, younger generations have everything they need.

The two take off by foot, traveling together through the woods and along the road, by the cliffs and the seashore.  They hail an old friend, lightning to the sky for a long-lived kitsune, and they travel together one last time, making their way back to the field where they first met.

There, they light the candle, and Scott thinks of home with all their might.

The pack wakes up to two unmapped stars, shining brightly next to each other in the sky, and their story becomes a legend, their love a favorite fairytale.

And, like all good fairytales, of course, Scott and Stiles lived happily ever after.


	2. (i think you're) just like heaven.

Listen on [YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLjvnOgW3FdZ_qhNkI5EJRQEX-23ytQa4t).

Listen on [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/pterawaters/playlist/4Q5AP9K88LUV7vFnSVW09r).

**Author's Note:**

> On tumblr [here](http://sleepy-skittles.tumblr.com).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fanmix for "(i think you're) just like heaven."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7194461) by [pterawaters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pterawaters/pseuds/pterawaters)




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